Embrace the Wild Land

by Rosanne Bittner

  He stopped strumming and sat watching the flames for several silent minutes. She put down her sewing and watched his dark, troubled eyes, as he flexed his right hand.

  “Is your arm bothering you again?” she asked. The knife wound Blade had inflicted upon him four months before at Fort Lyon had not healed quite right, and at times his arm felt numb.

  He shrugged and flexed his hand more. “Just a little. I want to keep working it. This occasional numbness could mean my death if I’m using my knife in self-defense. I think if I work it enough all the strength will come back.” He sighed. “Guess my old age is making me so I don’t heal so fast any more.”

  Abbie laughed. “Zeke Monroe, there is no such thing as age with a man like you. You’ll never be old. All the years do to you is make you more handsome. You’re as hard and strong as the day I met you, and you know it. Soon as I laid eyes on you I decided I’d not let you get away, because I’d never again see a finer specimen of man, and you had those gentle eyes on top of it. I thought my heart would jump right out of my mouth when you volunteered to scount for my pa’s train.”

  He snickered and looked at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “Now you sound like the little girl you were then, always pouring gushy, flattering words over me. Remember that time you blurted out to your sister all those fine compliments about me, all my wonderful attributes, trying to defend me because she tried to discourage you from being interested in me? Everybody on the train heard you, you crazy kid, and there I was trying to keep the others from knowing you had an interest. I was afraid they’d look down on you.”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “I didn’t care one whit what they thought! And any woman who tells me I shouldn’t be with you is just jealous!”

  Zeke chuckled and shook his head. Then he sobered as he studied the scar on his arm again. “I sure have my share of these. Sometimes I wonder how I can still walk on two feet. I should have been dead about thirty times over. I’ve been close to death so many times I try not to even count.”

  She began stitching on a moccasin again. “Men like Cheyenne Zeke don’t go down easy,” she commented. She sewed quietly for a moment, then raised her eyes to his again, herself sobering. She had noticed the scar on her own left hand, put there by a jealous Arapaho woman who had once wanted Zeke for herself and had attacked the white woman he had married. And there was the scar on her back and breast, where a Crow arrow had penetrated her body. How many years ago was it? And yet it seemed like yesterday. Zeke had saved her life then, draining a terrible infection with his own knife.

  “We both have scars,” she commented. “Inside and out. It’s the wounds on the inside that hurt the most, Lord knows.”

  Their eyes held and then he suddenly looked away. “God, Abbie, you never should have married me,” he said quietly.

  She caught the little boy tone again and refused to let him feel guilty for anything. “Look at it this way, Zeke,” she told him. “What other man would have put up with a strong-minded woman like me? I’m too independent and fiesty for the ordinary man. As some men put it, I have too much spirit. I needed a man as strong and mean as you to keep me in my place.”

  He met her eyes again and saw the teasing look in them. Then he broke into a grin. “Abbie-girl, I believe you’re probably right.”

  She nodded. “Of course I’m right.”

  He picked up a heavy rock he kept near the hearth and began bending his arm to exercise the stiff muscles.

  “I’ll bet I’m right about something else, too,” she added, this time more serious.

  “What’s that?”

  She pulled at a strip of rawhide. “Oh, the way you played that mandolin tonight—your music was kind of sad.” She met his eyes. “You’ re worried about Danny, aren’t you?”

  He stopped lifting the rock and leaned back to study her. “Woman, the way you read my mind, I swear I’d better be careful not to think about some other woman, or you’d be coming at me with a skillet aimed at my head.”

  She laughed lightly. “You’re exactly right.”

  Immediately both of them sobered. For one night there had been another woman—the prostitute called Anna Gale. But that had not been out of desire. It had been out of necessity, for Zeke Monroe had never desired another woman but his Abbie since the first day he’d set eyes on the virgin child he knew he must claim for himself. Anna Gale was something that had happened a long time ago, a brief, forced interlude to gain vital information. It was something they had long ago decided to never again discuss.

  He sighed and leaned forward, turning his eyes back to the crackling fire. A mantle clock above the fireplace ticked peacefully. It had been a gift to her from Zeke many years ago; “something from the world you should be living in,” he had told her. They still lived in a tipi when he first bought it for her. The cabin had not yet been built. She used to set it on an upturned log before she had a mantle to set it on. Now she had one made of stones Zeke had dug from the bed of the Arkansas River and put together with earthen clay. He had lamented at the time that the mantle was not made of fine marble, but Abbie loved it just the way it was, for loving, hard-working hands had built it.

  “What made you start thinking about Danny again?” she asked.

  He moved his eyes to hers. “Talk of the war,” he told her. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. Black Elk came to see me today while I was out in the north pasture. He said runners had come to their camp telling them a General Albert Pike was enlisting the services of Indians to help the Confederates. Seems the Confederates, hopefully with the help of Indians, plan to attack every fort along the Arkansas and maybe even move on into Denver.”

  She stopped her sewing and paled. “Oh, dear Lord! They shouldn’t get involved in that, Zeke!”

  “That’s what I told him. He said William Bent had given them the same warning. I told Black Elk that to join up with the Confederates would only make things worse for the Cheyenne, no matter how many guns or whatever else the Confederates offer them. I don’t see the South winning this war, Abbie. The Union is too many and too strong and too industrialized. The government will one day come down hard enough on the Indians without having the excuse that the Indians aided the Confederates. That’s all the remaining fuel they need to wipe out every red man west of the Mississippi. The worst part is that if there is even a hint out in these parts that the Indians are joining the Confederates and planning to raid along the Arkansas, Colorado will arm itself full force. You know how scared and crazy the settlers get at the mere hint of Indian trouble. I don’t like it. I don’t like any of it. It’s easy enough to shoot an Indian as it is, without the excuse that he might be aiding the rebels.”

  “What did Black Elk say he would do?”

  “He’s a wise man. He listens to men like me and Bent. I think he intends to stay out of it.”

  She sighed deeply. “I should hope so.” She frowned. “Why would the Confederates want anything out here anyway? I thought the concern was between North and South.”

  He rose and paced. The confines of a cabin in winter always made him restless, like a bobcat in a trap. She knew that in the morning he would go riding again with Wolf’s Blood, no matter how cold it was.

  “You forget that there is no longer just North and South, Abbie. “We’re surrounded now. There’s California, and that state is pro-Union. They’ll surely send troops east to help the Union, and the South knows it. Their only hope to stop that is to bottle them off by cutting off their ability to get through the West on their way. Besides that, there’s gold out here, and the South needs that gold.”

  She felt a chill. “I don’t like to think about it. I just pray that Danny is all right—and his family. And I pray that none of it comes here to our peaceful little ranch.”

  She looked up at him and they were both consumed by the sudden premonition that the war, no matter how much they tried to stay out of it, would somehow come to their doorstep and try to separate them. He walked over to her, bent down
and placed his hands on each arm of her rocker. He came closer and kissed her hair, her eyes, her cheeks, her chin, her mouth, suddenly needing her. She returned the kiss hungrily, as tears slipped down her cheeks. He released the kiss and moved his lips over her cheek and to her neck.

  “Zeke—” she whimpered.

  “Don’t say it,” he groaned. “Just don’t say it, Abbie-girl. I’ll not let us be separated again. I can’t stand to be apart from you.”

  “Oh, Zeke, why does there have to be war and fighting everywhere? Why can’t we live in peace? I don’t want any part of the fighting.”

  “Hush, Abbie.” He covered her mouth again with his own, moaning as he kissed her almost desperately. When his lips left hers she saw the terrible need in his eyes. She rose and set her sewing aside, and he lifted her in his arms and carried her into their small bedroom. He set her on her feet again and removed first the knitted sweater she wore, then her tunic. Neither of them spoke as he drank in her nakedness in the dim light that filtered through the curtains at the doorway of the room. His own earthy provocativeness and rugged power seemed to fill the small room, and again she marveled that her small self could please such a man. He ran his hands over her body, touching nipples that were taut from the cold air, for they were not near the hearth now, and the temperature was bitter outside the log walls.

  “You’d best get under the covers,” he told her. She could see his dashing, handsome smile in the dim light. “I’ll warm you up soon enough.”

  In spite of the darkness he knew she was blushing, and it excited him as it always did, for in so many ways she was still the little girl he had claimed and married those many years ago. And in spite of his own strength and power, she had a hold over him, this small woman whom he could easily break into little pieces with his bare hands. Yet those big hands held nothing but gentleness for his woman, and she had a way of making him feel weak.

  She climbed under the robes, which they preferred to regular blankets, for in winter they were much warmer. In moments her body heat warmed the soft fur of the skins that made their bed. She watched him undress, taking in the hard muscle and commanding physique. In the next moment he moved in beside her under the robes and naked bodies touched in familiar but still exciting moves, for each knew exactly how to please the other now. He moved over her with expert hands and lips, whispering words of love, their lovemaking synchronized to perfection over years of touching and loving and sharing bodies in the ultimate expression of that love. She soon felt the rippling pulsations of intense desire, and her body cried out for him.

  He moved on top of her, his lips lingering on her breasts, then her throat, as he moved between her slim thighs. She felt his long hair brush against her bare skin as it hung over his shoulders while he bent over her. In the next moment her Cheyenne warrior was surging into her, taking his pleasure in her and giving her pleasure in return. They moved in perfect rhythm, loving, sharing, giving and taking, each under the other’s power, each feeling weak from it. This was her man, and she had chosen well. When she was with Zeke Monroe, she never had to be afraid.

  She arched up to him in sweet abandon, whispering his name and grasping his arms tightly, and he drank in the beauty of her small form beneath his body, always amazed that he could invade her this way without hurting her.

  “Abbie, my Abbie!” he whispered. He came down close against her, enveloping her in his powerful arms as his life poured into her small body. “Abbie,” he groaned again, suddenly feeling a terrible fear of his own and feeling like a small boy who was going to be left all alone. He had been too lonely all his life. This woman was his only refuge from that lonely world, his only link to love and happiness.

  She felt the urgency of his embrace and she kissed his chest. “We have this moment, Zeke,” she told him softly. “Let’s lie here in each other’s arms and not think about tomorrow.”

  She felt him shudder, and he pulled her close against himself as he rolled to his side. He layed his cheek against hers, and she felt a wetness. And she knew this was one of those moments when even Zeke Monroe was afraid. He was a man of fierce pride and courage and strength, a man of vicious vengeance and superb fighting skills. It was not man or the elements he feared. Rather, it was the things he could not see, the intangible, the element of fate that frightened Zeke Monroe. He feared where destiny and his Indian blood might lead him, pulling his loved ones with him. It was that secret side of him that only Abbie had seen and understood—the fear of the lonely little boy that dwelled within the man. And it was that tiny, vulnerable part of him that she loved the most. No one but Abbie knew this hidden part of the man who was called Lone Eagle.

  They lay in each other’s arms, each drawing strength from the other, each praying to his and her own gods. Soon they were asleep, as the treasured mantle clock ticked softly and the unfinished snow moccasins lay in the rocker. Abigail Monroe would not return to her sewing this night.

  Eight

  Sweet-smelling smoke wafted into the air, as Zeke held the sacred pipe out to the four directions, offering it in the sacrifice called Nivstanivoo. He drew on the smoke, then held the pipe up to Heammawihio, God of the Sky, the most powerful, and down to Ahktunowihio, God of the Earth. He puffed it again and breathed deeply, raising the pipe again while his eyes were closed.

  “Oh, great Maheo, our father spirit, bless my firstborn son. May his life be long and healthy, and may you fill him with courage and take from him his pain when he offers his flesh at the Sun Dance in this his fifteenth year.”

  He opened his eyes and handed the pipe to Wolf’s Blood, who sat near him. “Offer the pipe in the same way,” he told the boy. “The spirits will know your heart is pure and your courage is great. They will help you bear the pain of the Sun Dance sacrifice, for in spite of your white blood, they will know you are a true Cheyenne.”

  The boy took the pipe reverently, offering it as his father had done. Father and son sat alone on a hillside that overlooked Zeke’s ranch and the Appaloosa herds below. Both were painted in their prayer colors, Zeke’s face striped in white, Wolf’s Blood’s in blue. They wore only loincloths that warm spring day of 1862, and their bodies were also painted in prayer colors, as well as bedecked with strands of bone and bead necklaces. Zeke’s hair hung long and loose, the eagle feathers he had earned for his own courage tied into one side of it.

  This was a special moment, a weekly ritual now between father and son, as Zeke prepared his first-born for the upcoming Sun Dance celebration and sacrifice. It would not be easy to watch his beloved son suffer, yet he would do so with pride and love and would not stop Wolf’s Blood from doing that which was in his heart to do. The boy handed the pipe back to his father.

  “You are probably the only son I have who will be all Indian in his heart,” Zeke told the boy. “You were raised among my people in your early years, taught the warrior ways by your uncle, Swift Arrow, as is the custom. But things are changing, Wolf’s Blood. The people are being forced into ever-shrinking territory, and I fear that one day, as we lose the freedom to ride and hunt and join our brothers to the north, we will also lose a part of ourselves and our old ways. It will be up to ones like you to preserve the language and the customs and the religious ceremonies.”

  Zeke looked into Wolf’s Blood’s eyes, which shined with worship. “I will not let such things be forgotten, Father. There is something … inside of me. Something that cries out to be free … to ride and hunt and feel the wind in my face, to open my arms and hold the whole universe, to laugh and sing and sacrifice my flesh to the spirits so I will know that I am one with the whole earth and with the animals. This thing inside of me—it cares nothing for books or for white man ways. It longs only to …1 don’t know … only to … be. Just to be.”

  Zeke smiled softly. “You don’t have to explain to me, son. I know what you’re trying to say.”

  “It is hard, having this white blood in me.”

  Zeke’s eyes saddened. “Yes. It is hard. It was
harder for me, for I was forced to grow up among whites who hated me, forced to sit in their schools and wear their clothes, told I was worthless and ignorant. I knew that wasn’t true, but I was alone. I hope you never know that kind of loneliness.”

  “You wish this, but I, too, will know such loneliness, Father. I feel it in my bones—see it in my dreams. The life I choose to live will create the loneliness, for I will one day have to leave this home—and my mother.” He swallowed. “And I shall have to leave you, for your place is here with my mother.”

  Zeke nodded, his eyes full of pain. How he loved this son, already tall and muscular for his age, with a handsome, finely chiseled face framed by shiny black hair that hung straight and long, nearly reaching his waist. His dark eyes already made the young Cheyenne girls steal flirting glances at the makings of a fine husband. To look at him made Zeke think of his own youth and all its tortures. At least Wolf’s Blood had grown up away from the cruelty of white rejection, yet now white encroachment would surely bring some of those same problems to his son’s doorstep.

  “It will be very hard for me to watch you go, Wolf’s Blood,” he spoke up, his voice tender with emotion. “I love you. And I love being with you. My heart glows with pride in you. But soon you will be fifteen, and you will make your sacrifice. And not many winters after that you will be a man and go your own way, the way of the people. You will take a wife and have your own family.”

  “I am not sure that I want a wife,” the boy mused, taking on an air of manliness. “My uncle, Swift Arrow, says taking a wife can make a man weak. He is a great Dog Soldier. The best Dog Soldiers do not take wives. I cannot be a Dog Soldier because of my white blood, but I can still be a good warrior and prove I am as good as the Dog Soldiers.”