Chapter 28
Blaine sat silent inside the coach as it splashed through fresh puddles from a recent rain. Sunny held little six-month-old Bo in her arms, feeling so weary she wondered how she found the energy to walk. “I’m so sorry, Blaine.”
For a moment he remained silent. “How did it happen?” He finally spoke up. “I worked so hard for this, Sunny. To not even win the primaries…I don’t understand it.”
“Who knows how the minds of the general public think? Sometimes the common person just doesn’t trust someone with as much wealth as we have. They think a man like you would serve only your own interests if you were elected.”
“I don’t need to hear it from my own wife.”
She sighed in exasperation, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. It had been a long night, waiting in the ballroom of a hotel owned by Blaine himself in the heart of Manhattan. He had ordered champagne and caviar, a bevy of fancy foods and celebration ornaments, but the big party he had planned never came to be. He had lost before even making it to the general elections in November. It was two a.m., and Sunny’s legs ached from standing so much. Bo had been fussy all night from being in such noisy surroundings, and the general strain of the evening was catching up to Sunny, who had never truly had time to recover from Bo’s birth. Blaine had her out campaigning by the time Bo was a month old.
“Blaine, I’m just trying to figure out—”
“Don’t try, Sunny. It’s partly your fault anyway.”
She sat up a little straighter and looked at him. “My fault! What are you talking about? I worked so hard for you.”
“You missed several stops because of the damn baby.”
“The what?”
He made a groaning sound, putting his hand to his eyes. “Sunny, I never wanted a child this soon. I knew it would interfere with the campaigning. I thought afterward that it would be good for publicity, especially if you had the child along on public appearances; but he kept you from being at my side like you should have been.”
“For God’s sake, Blaine, he’s your son! How can you talk about him like he’s just a thing that’s in your way!”
“Because he is in the way! You got pregnant with him right away, got fat right away—all before our marriage could even get off the ground! You were sick and we couldn’t make love, you couldn’t finish that trip. I missed my hunting expedition in Africa because of him. You couldn’t campaign with me in your last months, and even a month after he was born you kept complaining about being too sick and too tired, and the damn baby cried all the time.”
“He had colic! As far as my getting pregnant, that takes two, you know, and I don’t recall you refusing to come to my bed.”
“I might not have been so adamant about it if I had gotten some kind of decent response out of you. I kept wondering what was wrong with me, why I couldn’t please you sexually. That’s why I was always wanting you, hoping you’d loosen up and enjoy it. But you never have.”
The carriage pulled up in front of their town house, and Blaine climbed out and marched up to the door without waiting for Sunny. Stunned by his remarks, Sunny climbed out on shaky legs, holding little Bo close, realizing more and more that he was all she had. Apparently, Blaine O’Brien had meant to use them both as tools to glory. Now that it had backfired, he would be colder and more distant than ever. Was this what she could expect for the rest of their married life?
She went inside after him, and Blaine had already shed his hat and light jacket. It was a hot, sultry August night, and for Sunny the air seemed heavier and more oppressive than it really was. She handed a sleeping Bo to a servant and told her to put the child to bed, then removed her straw hat and followed Blaine into the study, where he was lighting a thin cigar. She closed the study door. “Blaine, don’t shut us out like this.”
He turned, his dark eyes blazing. “He won after all, didn’t he? He didn’t have to beat me in a physical contest; the son of a bitch didn’t have to beat me financially or socially, but he won all the same. He had my woman first, sired her bastard, and ultimately caused me to lose the elections!”
Sunny felt her cheeks going hot. “What are you talking about?”
He stepped a little closer. “I’m talking about Colt Travis!” he snapped.
Shivers ran through her. “I don’t know what you mean—”
“The hell you don’t! A few weeks ago I had occasion to talk to Tom Canary, Sunny! You know what he told me? The bastard made the snide remark that he didn’t realize what a horsewoman you were. I asked him what he meant, and he told me that when he and other U.P. men had gone out to the work camp last year when they had all that Indian trouble, they had to call you in from God knows where—that you’d been out riding with Colt Travis! He said he thought I knew about it, and that was why he never mentioned it that first time I saw him in Omaha just before we left to come back to Chicago. That bastard never liked you anyway, Sunny—doesn’t believe in women having any power. There’s nothing he enjoys more than making you look bad, but then, he didn’t really have to try, did he? You did that all by yourself!”
Sunny grasped the back of a chair, holding his eyes boldly. “So I went riding with Colt. So what? It’s you I married, remember?”
“Save it, you slut!”
The word hit her like a physical blow. She thought about her mother and grandmother, took on all the guilt in that one statement. She literally gasped, turning away and grasping her stomach. Canary! He had always been an arrogant bastard, always voted opposite her at meetings, always made remarks about the U.P.’s “token woman.” She could picture his face when he made the remark to Blaine.
“Tell me, Sunny. Just who is the father of that pretty, dark-skinned baby boy upstairs?” Blaine walked closer when he made the remark. “Is he the bastard I think he is?”
She whirled. “Don’t talk about my baby that way! He’s a sweet, innocent little boy who never needs to know the difference. I married you, and if you had shown one ounce of genuine love and compassion, one sign that you loved me for me and not for my name, I could easily have loved you the way I should, Blaine! I made vows to you that I intend to keep.”
The blow came from nowhere, sending her reeling. She fell to her right, crashing over a table and lamp, cutting her cheek on the glass bottom of the lamp when it broke. She felt herself being pulled to her feet, felt another blow. The suddenness and the power of her husband’s fists so stunned her that she had no resistance at first. Blaine grabbed her by the hair after she went down the second time and yanked her to a sitting position, kneeling over her. “You lifted your skirts for Colt Travis like a common whore, didn’t you!”
She could make no reply, barely able to see him through blurred vision. It was beautiful and good, she wanted to tell him. Please don’t say it that way! I loved him. Why can’t anybody understand how much I loved Colt?
“Slut! Why in hell did you go ahead and marry me, huh? Did you figure to get your jollies from your half-breed stud and then marry me for prestige? Is he the reason you’re always talking about getting back out to Omaha and the railroad?”
“No,” she managed to mutter. “You…don’t understand, Blaine.” Those words! Those horrible words! Slut and whore. “It wasn’t like you…think,” she muttered. “Please…don’t make it…so ugly. You’re my…husband, Blaine. I would never…never be untrue to my…wedding vows.” She could feel blood running down the side of her neck from the cut on her cheek.
“I got all the answers I needed the minute I mentioned Colt Travis! I saw it in your eyes, bitch!” Again he yanked her to her feet. “If I had won that election like I should have, I wasn’t going to say a thing! I was going to let it go, put on the image of happy husband and father for the public. But that’s all changed now. I’ve lost, and I don’t like losing at anything, Sunny!” He held her by the arms, and she stood there li
mp and in shock. “The worst part is you and that baby screwed it all up for me! And to know the kid isn’t even mine makes it all that much more infuriating! I not only lost that election, but I lost because of that no good, worthless bastard Indian!”
“Blaine…please…let me talk. We can…work it out. We’ve been friends for so…long. You…loved me, and I…want to love you…be a good wife—”
“Love you? I never loved you, Sunny! I picked you because you were the perfect wife for a man of prestige and power, a woman who understood my world, who would look good in the governor’s mansion—maybe even the White House! I chose you, Sunny, like a man chooses a prize horse! We were going to be the perfect couple, the talk of society, admired by everyone in the state of New York, maybe someday by the whole nation. But you went and ruined all of it!”
There came more blows, another ugly tirade of name-calling. Sunny had no idea where she was in the room, which furniture she was crashing into. She only knew she heard things breaking, heard his ugly words, felt blows to the face, to her ribs, her stomach, in total shock from the horror of discovering that the gentlemanly Blaine O’Brien could be capable of such violence. “He won,” he kept saying. “Colt Travis outdid me after all! The son of a bitch can’t give you as much as department store jewelry, but he won anyway!”
“Mr. O’Brien!” Sunny heard one of the servants calling from outside the doors. “What’s wrong? What’s—” Sunny heard the door slide open, heard a scream.
“Get the hell out of here,” Blaine shouted. “Get out of here and keep your mouth shut!”
“But Mrs. O’Brien—”
“Get out!” The words were more of a roar.
Sunny heard the woman let out a wail. “My God! My God,” she cried. Sunny could not move, and she thought how strange it was that at the moment she could not feel anything. She sensed she was on the floor, and she began crawling, something inside telling her she had to get away before Blaine killed her, wanting to live now only for the sake of poor little Bo. She had to protect Bo. Her movements were stopped when Blaine picked her up like a rag doll and threw her against a piano. Sunny heard the sound of the piano keys hitting their strings in odd notes as she again slid to the floor, her hand grasping the keyboard.
“Thanks to you I can’t hold my head up in this town,” Blaine stormed. “I’ve lost an election, and I don’t like that, Sunny, not one bit! I won’t say anything about what a slut my wife is, because I don’t intend to live with that kind of shame and gossip! We’ll put on a pretty front for others, but at home this marriage is ended! You, my little whore, are stuck with it! You’re going to go the rest of your life without a man in your bed, because I won’t be there, and if you take any other man, I’ll beat you again! Understand? You’re in my little prison, Sunny, and I’m never unlocking the doors!”
She could feel him leaning close then, heard his growled words. “If and when I do choose to come to your bed, it will be for sheer manly pleasure, not love. That’s how it is with whores, you know! And it will be only to have children of our own so the marriage looks good, and so I have an heir to my fortune! But don’t expect that little bastard upstairs to get one penny of what’s mine! I’m cutting him out of my will! I’ll let you explain to him when he’s older!”
He kicked aside the piano bench against which Sunny was leaning, so that she tumbled all the way to the floor.
“We’ll talk more when I get back,” he growled, standing over her with authority. “You cost me a hunting trip to Africa, and I’m by God going to take it! If we’re going to keep this marriage together, I have a lot to think about, and for a while I don’t want to see your face or see that worthless baby upstairs! I’m getting the hell out of New York and away from the both of you!”
Sunny was vaguely aware of Blaine leaving the room. Moments later she heard the servant Trudy exclaiming over her, “Dear God! Oh, my God, what has he done to you, Mrs. O’Brien!” Sunny wished Mae were there. She had left her in Omaha. Blaine did not want any of her servants coming to New York with her. Mae would be such a comfort. Maybe Vi. If she could just talk, she’d tell Trudy to send for Vi.
“I’ll get a doctor,” Trudy was saying. Sunny heard a door slam. “Thank God he’s left,” Trudy said. “He can’t hurt you anymore, ma’am. Oh, you poor thing.” The woman yelled for help. Moments later Sunny heard the butler, Robert, also carrying on. She felt herself being lifted, and now the pain began to set in. It seemed to be everywhere, her head, her back, her ribs, her stomach, her insides. She tasted blood and Trudy went on about blood dripping on the carpet. “Get her to her bed,” the woman told Robert. “I’ll send for the doctor.”
“What should we tell him, Trudy?”
“I don’t know! Dear God, I never thought Mr. O’Brien was capable of something like this! I’ve always thought him an arrogant man and he certainly has never been overly kind to us, but this! Oh, such a beautiful, sweet woman she is! How could he do this!”
“Baby…my baby,” Sunny mumbled.
“The boy is fine, sleeping soundly,” Robert assured her, not realizing she meant the baby she thought she might be carrying by Blaine. She had been saving the surprise for after the elections, thinking to add to Blaine’s celebration by telling him she was going to have another child. He had not given her the chance.
“I’ll say she fell down the stairs,” Trudy was saying. “Mr. O’Brien is much too important for the doctor to dare say it was anything else. I’ll call Dr. Tims, Mr. O’Brien’s personal physician. He’ll be discreet about it.”
“Yes, yes. Well, hurry and send someone for him. She’s in a bad way.”
Sunny rested her head on Robert’s shoulder, and as consciousness began to leave her, she thought it was someone else holding her. “Colt,” she whispered.
***
Since the Union Pacific had come through, the wild, fast-growing town of Cheyenne, Wyoming, was bursting at the seams with people from all walks of life. The summer of ’68 saw thousands of cattle move through the town, brought in by surrounding ranchers and on drives from the south to be boarded onto trains that would take them to Chicago for slaughter. Numerous side tracks held additional locomotives and waiting cattle cars, and it had already been decided that more would be needed the next summer. The town citizens joked that if the dust or a stray bullet didn’t choke or kill a person, the smell would do him in.
After a wild shootout with bank robbers the day before, Colt was given some time off to recover from a minor bullet wound that had grazed his left hip. He sat in his room at the Eat & Sleep boardinghouse, owned by an older couple by the name of Perry from the South who had lost everything they owned in the war and had come west to start over. It was Mrs. Perry who had brought the morning paper for him, along with a cup of coffee.
Colt picked up the paper and read the headline. Infamous Cheyenne Leader, Roman Nose, Killed in Heated Battle.
So, he thought, another good man down. He had followed the Indian problems closely, wondering if he would ever get over his own guilt for killing White Buffalo.
The Cheyenne leader, Roman Nose, was killed recently during a siege against Major George A. Forsyth and approximately fifty experienced scouts, who were pinned down on an island along the Arikaree River in Kansas, from September 15 until September 25. The scouts were surrounded and held on the island by hundreds of attacking Cheyenne. Shielded only by their own hand-dug rifle pits, and many nearly starving to death, Forsyth’s scouts hung on in a heroic effort against warring Cheyenne intent on a massacre. The scouts had been hired on order of General Phil Sheridan to help track those Indians who have been committing depredations against settlers throughout Kansas, Nebraska, and Colorado.
On the morning of September 25 the 10th Cavalry arrived on the scene to find hungry, battered but cheering scouts still entrenched in what is now being called Beecher’s Island, after a Lieutenant Fre
derick H. Beecher, who was killed in the fight. By the time the scouts were rescued, at least six had been killed and another fifteen wounded. Forsyth reported at least thirty Indians killed and close to a hundred wounded. For the last few days of the fight, Forsyth’s men survived on boiled horse flesh.
It is hoped that the death of Roman Nose will take some of the fire out of the constantly warring Cheyenne. General Sheridan will continue to pursue the savages, and has promised General Sherman that there will be no peace for the Cheyenne for many months to come.
Colt folded the newspaper and sighed, reaching over to pick up a pre-rolled cigarette and lighting it. He winced with the stinging pain in his hip, a wound that was not major, but bad enough to make a man grimace when he moved around too much. He sat up on the edge of the bed, too restless to let the pain keep him on his back, but forced to gingerly lean to one side to avoid putting pressure on the sore spot.
He took a deep drag on the cigarette, thinking how he could have been there at Beecher’s Island if he had answered the ad he had seen a few weeks earlier calling for experienced scouts. He had been tempted to take up his old profession and get back out on the Plains, but he had come to like Rex Andrews and knew the man depended on him to help with the demanding job of trying to keep some kind of order in Cheyenne.
He grasped the iron post at the foot of the bed and managed to stand up, then limped over to a window, watching the bustling, dusty street below. He had to admit that Andrews had had a good idea offering him a deputy’s job. Although he usually hated so much noise and civilization, ever since Sunny had married Blaine O’Brien he had needed the excitement and danger, the busy schedule he kept and the outlet it gave him for all the pent-up anger. Being in Cheyenne left him little time to think about the hurt. To return to the open plains and be entirely alone again was now something he didn’t think he could bear.
He smoked quietly, allowing himself a rare thought about Sunny. He had struggled against the memories, worked long hours so that sleep came quickly, all in an effort not to lie awake and think too much. It was times like this when it all came back so clearly for him—those blue eyes, that delicious smile, the feel of her body against his own, the ecstasy of claiming her.
Thunder on the Plains Page 50
