But what would happen to that special love now? She might never want him to touch her again. Maybe she would even hate him for not being there when she needed him. It seemed every time he went away something bad happened to her.
He moved away from her, sometime deep in the night. He put more wood on the fire and lit a thin cigar, wide awake, still full of rage and vengeance and sorrow. She had come so far. Everything had been so beautiful between them. It only reminded him that it could never stay that way forever, even if she recovered again. Something else would come between them—her past. It had to happen eventually. He was only getting a taste of how it would feel to lose her.
It amazed him that he had gotten into this mess in the first place, that he actually loved a woman—loved her enough to be more cruel to another man than he had ever been during all his wanderings and troubles. He had killed before, but always with deliberate accurateness. He had never purposely made a man die slowly. Yet in Johnny White’s case, it had actually felt good. He supposed he had more Indian viciousness in him than he realized, all learned from living like one all these years.
He moved the coffeepot onto the fire and stared at it until it began to steam. He poured some of the thick brew into a tin cup, realizing he had absolutely no definite plans for his future. He had been confused enough before meeting Mary. Now things were even more complicated. Until she remembered her past, and even after that, if she still wanted to be with him, he would have to take care of her, provide for her. He couldn’t make her live this way forever. It was too hard for her. He had to decide how he was going to support her, give her a nice little house, provide for their children.
His eyebrows arched. Children! He hadn’t thought of that before. Sons. Suddenly having sons sounded kind of nice. It was strange how little thought he’d given to any of these things before finding Mary.
She groaned then and he jumped up, setting the cigar aside on the log and going over to kneel over her.
“Mary?”
Her breathing quickened and she tossed her head, as though terrified. She began to sweat. He grasped her face between his hands.
“Mary, it’s all right, honey. Sage is here. Sage is here, and nobody’s gonna hurt you.”
Her whole body shivered and she opened the violet eyes, staring up at him strangely. Suddenly her eyes got wider, and she reached up and scratched at him. “Comanche! Comanche! Comanche,” she screamed, following the words with odd wails and groans.
He grasped her wrists, forcing her arms under her back and lying on top of her to keep her still.
“No, Mary. I’m not Comanche. I’m not Comanche! It’s all right, honey.”
She gave out a heart-wrenching cry, like a wounded animal, pushing against him, struggling to get free of him, tossing her head.
“No-o-o,” she cried. Her face was drenched with perspiration. Where was her mind? It tore at his heart to see the agony on her face, see it in her eyes. He continued to hold her tightly.
“Mary,” he said firmly and loudly. “Mary, stop it. It’s all right. Sage is here. Sage. You remember Sage, don’t you? Let me hold you. I won’t let anybody hurt you—not ever again. Please don’t cry, Mary.”
Her chest began heaving in great sobs, and she still seemed lost in some other world he could not share.
“My God,” he groaned, hanging on to her. “I’ve lost you. I’ve lost my Mary just as sure as if you went away.” She grew more still, just lying there weeping. “Don’t leave me, Mary,” he groaned. “It makes me feel so lonely. I’ve never felt so lonely in my whole life.”
He kissed her face gently, but she had slipped off into that faraway place he could not reach. She lay there quietly again, not even crying.
Morning dawned on the quiet cabin. Sage awoke to find her still lying next to him, seemingly asleep. But he knew it was more than sleep, much more. He got up and dressed, stirring the fire and making coffee with fresh beans. It seemed everything he did reminded him of how gentle and loving Mary could be. She had roasted the beans. The cabin was tidy, the dishes she had washed the day before still lay neatly on the crude table.
“I’ve got to go get my horse and the wood,” he told her, deciding to start talking to her like he always had. Maybe somehow it would help her come around, and it made him feel less lonely. “I’ll get you dressed and you can go with me. But you have to get up, Mary, get up and walk for me.” He sliced some bread, then walked over to her. “Come on. It’s time to get up, Mary.”
He pulled on her arm, forcing her to sit up. He shook her slightly. “Mary? Wake up, Mary.” He pulled her to her feet and she sagged in his arms. “Come on, Mary.” He put an arm around her and began walking around the cabin with her. “Wake up, Mary. Come on. I’m not gonna let you slip away on me. You wake up and walk with Sage. We’ve got a long way to go to get my horse and the wood, and I’m not gonna leave you behind. You might come around and be afraid.”
Her feet started moving on their own, in slow, hesitant steps. “Come on. You can do it,” he told her. He walked her around and around the table, letting go of her a little more each time until she walked on her own. Her eyes were open but staring as he grasped her arms and made her sit down on a log. “Let’s eat something.”
He buttered some bread and held it to her mouth. “Come on, Mary. Eat.”
Her violet eyes moved to meet his dark ones, and his heart quickened when he thought he saw a flicker of life, a tiny sign she was at least partly in this world. She looked at the bread curiously, then took it and began eating it.
Sage laughed aloud. “There! I knew you could do it! You’re gonna be all right, honey. You’re gonna be all right. You’ll remember me in no time at all, and you’ll start talking again and we’ll make love again and—” His heart tightened painfully. “And you’ll forget all those ugly things. You’ll forget those men who hurt you. I’ll show you how beautiful it is and that’s all you’ll remember. I’ll make up for whatever other bad things happened to you. Nobody will hurt you anymore.”
She ate, staring absently at the door, seemingly unaware of anything he was saying. It was just like before. She knew what to do, but she wasn’t speaking, was hardly aware he was there. But he took hope from the fact that she was at least functioning and eating.
She finished the bread and drank some coffee. She looked around the cabin curiously, then went to the door and opened it, going outside.
“Wait!” Sage ran after her, carrying the wolf-skin coat and her moccasins. He grabbed her and stopped her, holding out the moccasins. “You have to put these on your feet, Mary. It’s cold.” He realized she was remembering enough to go to the outhouse. She let him put on the moccasins and the jacket, then she walked to the outhouse. He watched to be sure that was where she went, glad she remembered.
He waited until she came out, afraid she might wander off if he wasn’t watching. Then he realized Terrence’s body still lay at the corner of the cabin. She hadn’t seemed to notice it on her way out. He quickly ran up to her, taking her arm and staying in front of her so that she couldn’t see the body as she returned.
“You did well, honey, real well. Come on inside and we’ll get dressed to go get the wood.” He took her inside and set her on one of the log chairs. “You sit right there, Mary. You understand? Sit right there and don’t move till I come to help dress you.”
She stared straight ahead. Sage went outside and quickly dragged Terrence’s body over beside Johnny’s, which still lay tied farther away on the other side of the cabin. It was partially covered with new snow that had fallen during the night. It lay naked and stiff, looking blue under the snow. An ugly red wound gaped between the legs. Sage still felt no remorse. He took out his knife and cut down the privates that hung over the man’s face, letting them fall onto his chest and leaving them there. He ran back to the two men’s horses, which he realized he had never even untied the night before.
“Poor bastards,” he muttered. What grass could be found had been eaten awa
y around the animals. Sage untied them both and moved them over toward the outhouse, where he retied them low enough that they could eat some grass that grew around the building. “I’m afraid I have to use you two before I can unload you later,” he told them, giving them both a pat.
He hurried back to the cabin and grabbed a bucket. Mary still sat staring. She hadn’t moved. He ran out with the bucket and went to the little stream at the other side of the house. It flowed so fast he suspected it might not freeze all winter. He filled the bucket and carried it over to the horses, setting it down so they could drink. He took a blanket from one of them and ran over to cover the two dead bodies so Mary would not catch sight of them before he could get rid of them. That would have to wait until later. Right now he had to go get his own horse and the wood, and he didn’t like leaving Mary alone in the cabin too long.
To his surprise, when he returned she had gotten up and shed her coat and was dressing.
“Mary! Look at you.”
She didn’t seem to hear. She was moving automatically again. She pulled her hair back and tied it with a ribbon. Sage urged her to put the coat back on, and he draped the buffalo robe over his shoulders and put on some gloves. His wolf-skin coat hung so long on Mary that the sleeves covered her hands. He pulled up the hood over her head and led her outside. “Come on. Come with me.”
He led her through the snow to the horses that belonged to Johnny and Terrence. She mounted one of them by herself, again remembering the physical necessities. Sage mounted the other animal and picked up the reins to Mary’s horse, leading it as he rode toward the ridge where he had left his Appaloosa and the wood on the other side.
For several minutes they rode in silence. The horses’ hooves swished through the snow, making little sound. Saddles squeaked, and the horses occasionally snorted, their breath coming out in white vapor against the cold air.
Otherwise it was a silent day, made more silent by Mary’s closed lips. To Sage’s relief, when they ascended the ridge, he saw his horse still tethered on the other side. He had been afraid of finding it dead from wolves. He rode closer and dismounted, untying the animal, then leading it to the travois and tying the travois to the Appaloosa. He could not pull the travois all the way up, as it was already loaded. The horse would have to drag it the way it was, which would be difficult.
“You’ll get a good rest after this,” Sage promised the animal. “I’ve got a couple of extra horses now. They can do the hauling for a few days.”
He remounted, leading Mary’s horse by the reins on one side of his horse, and leading the Appaloosa with the travois on the other side.
It was a long, slow ride back to the cabin. Mary said nothing. Sage tried not to think about the day before, tried not to ponder too heavily how happy he had been, how much progress Mary had made. It was like starting all over again. But it didn’t affect his love for her. It only made him love her more.
When they finally arrived at the cabin, he led her inside and took off her jacket. He stoked up the fire, then left to pick up the bodies of Terrence Lowe and Johnny White. He tied them to the new horse he was riding.
“Let’s find you two a good resting place,” he said coldly. “I reckon I should thank you for the extra horses and supplies. They’ll come in handy.” He dragged them to a cliff nearly half a mile away, a deep drop farther down the cliff against which the cabin sat. He untied them and kicked them over the side. They rolled and bounced on rocks, landing deep in a stand of pine.
“Rest in peace,” he muttered.
He mounted up and returned to the cabin, checking on Mary again. She was standing at the crude table, peeling potatoes into a black kettle.
“Mary?”
She made no response. He turned away, going to unload the travois and stack the wood.
For three days Mary only moved about, doing the essentials. She lay beside him at night, stiff and quiet. Sage didn’t try to make love to her, but he held her, hoping she felt his love. On the third night there came the first sign of more memory, when wolves howled outside, not far from the cabin. Mary gasped, huddling closer to Sage.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “Nothing will hurt you. Nothing.”
He held her tightly, praying the wolves would not attack his horses. He had decided he would let the Appaloosa go. The two horses belonging to Terrence and Johnny were bigger and stronger. The gray gelding had never come back, and he knew the Appaloosa would probably wander off, too. He would tether and hang on to the two new horses until he had all the wood he needed, then he would let them go also. They couldn’t possibly survive up here the entire winter.
Somewhere deep in the night he finally fell asleep. It seemed sleep had been hard to come by since the day he had found his Mary brutalized. He thought he heard his name called, thought he was dreaming, until he was roused into wakefulness to find Mary stumbling around the cabin, calling his name.
His heart filled with joy at the realization she was speaking his name again. Did she really remember him? Was she remembering that terrible day? Was she only reliving what had happened, screaming for Sage to come help her? He quickly got up and went to her, grasping her arms.
“Here, Mary. I’m right here.”
Tears were streaming down her face as her violet eyes met his own. She looked at him for several long seconds, reaching up and touching his beard.
“Sage,” she whimpered. She reached around his neck, a long, heart-wrenching wail coming from deep in her soul.
“God, Mary, don’t. I’m so sorry. I never thought they’d find this place, never thought they’d even try after that storm. I thought you were safe, or I never would have left you, Mary.”
He wrapped her in his arms, then picked her up and carried her back to the bedrolls. She would not stop clinging to him.
“It’s all right. It’s all right,” he whispered. He lay down beside her, pulling the covers over both of them, hardly able to make the movements because she would not let go of him.
“Sage! Sage! Sage!”
“I’m right here.” He hugged her tightly. “Thank God, you’re talking again.” He kissed her hair, her eyes, but he didn’t touch her any other way, partly out of respect for what she had been through, and partly because he was terrified of how she would react. Would he ever be able to make love to her again? How could he show her it was all right, that it could still be beautiful? She curled up against him like a child, and he held her like a father.
“S—Sage stay,” she stuttered through tears.
“Yes. Sage stay. Nothing bad will happen to you again.”
“Comanche.”
“No. There’s no Comanche here. Just me. Just Sage.”
He wondered if she even remembered Terrence Lowe and Johnny White. It dawned on him that it was quite possible she didn’t. Perhaps their attack had brought back other memories, and that was all she linked it to, not even remembering the faces of the two men who had violated her. Maybe it was just as well. Forgetting whatever had happened before would be hard enough. If she ever came around and still didn’t know about the two men who lay cold and dead at the bottom of the cliff where he had dumped them, he would never tell her. Why add to her agonizing memories? She didn’t need to know. They were dead and that was that.
“Sage.”
“Yes. Just Sage, honey. No Comanche. Just Sage.” He rose up slightly and studied the violet eyes. They showed another spark of life and recognition.
“Sage.”
He stroked her face gently, his eyes tearing. “My poor Venado. That’s how I think of you, you know. I know Mary is your real name, but you’re still my Little Deer.” He kissed her cheek. “You sleep now, Venado. Just sleep and sleep, and you’ll get better again. I know you will. It’s gonna be all right between us—beautiful and sweet and fun like it was before. You won’t even remember what happened, and nobody will ever know—nobody but me.” He rested beside her, petting her hair. “Just sleep, Mary. Just sleep.”
Outsi
de an owl screeched, and he thought about what a vicious, dangerous land this was. It had never seemed to matter before, when he had been alone. Now it mattered more than he could say.
Chapter Eleven
Charlet St. Claire paced the polished hardwood floor of the long hallway that led from the entranceway of her grand, Gothic-style home.
“For you, Marietta,” she said quietly, great sorrow in her voice. “This beautiful home, for you and Raphael and the baby. We all would have been so happy here.”
It was as though the world had come to an end, at least for the St. Claires and the Cousteaus. What a grand day it had been when seventeen-year-old Marietta, their beautiful, refined daughter, their only child, had married Raphael Cousteau, son of a wealthy merchant family in New Orleans. The Cousteaus and the St. Claires had known each other in New Orleans, where James St. Claire owned a very successful bank backed by old family money. He had inherited that money from a father who once ran a very profitable shipping line between New Orleans and other ports.
It was through that shipping business that the elder St. Claires and Cousteaus had become great friends. The friendship had continued to another generation, and then the third, bringing about the marriage between Marietta St. Claire and Raphael Cousteau.
But that was not until after James St. Claire had moved his family to Texas, a promising new frontier where a banker could reap great profits by setting up a new lending institution. That had been eight years ago, when Texas had been destitute and in need of financial support from the States. Marietta had been just a little girl when they had moved here.
Now Texas was a state, the biggest state in the Union. James St. Claire’s venture into Texas had proved to be very profitable. Land values had skyrocketed, cities were blossoming and growing, and the St. Claire bank was booming.
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