Embrace the Wild Land

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Let him come out first,” he whispered. “If we trap him inside, he might shoot Abbie out of meanness.”

  Wolf’s Blood nodded and Zeke picked up a large rock and threw it, trying to make a noise outside the entrance and arouse the man inside. The man’s horse whinnied and father and son crouched and waited.

  “That you, Buel?” a voice called out. “Where in hell have you been? I’m gettin’ tired of watchin’ this smelly bitch!”

  Zeke motioned to Wolf’s Blood to get his knife ready, pointing to the boy that the kill was his. There must be no sound. A gunshot in a canyon could echo for miles. So far everything had been done silently, and this must also be done silently.

  Wolf’s Blood pulled out his big knife, realizing he must be accurate the first time, or the man might turn and shoot. His young heart pounded with glorious revenge and the joy of showing his father what he had learned.

  “Buel?” came the voice again. A man finally emerged from the shaft, a man whose face was caved in on one side, the remains of what Zeke Monroe had done to him the year before in Kansas. Wolf’s Blood rose and let out an Indian war cry. Handy turned at the sound, and in the next moment a huge blade pierced the man’s heart, square in the middle of his chest. Handy fell backward and it was over.

  “Good work!” Zeke told the boy. “Go back and get the horses. Use his horse to go. No sense walking back.” They moved down to the shaft entrance and Wolf’s Blood started to go inside to his mother. Zeke grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said, the pain now beginning to show on his face. “Let me go. You stay out unless I call you to come in. Just go get the horses, Wolf’s Blood.” The boy glanced at the cave entrance, then back to his father, realizing the agony his father must be suffering now. He nodded and bent down to yank his knife from the dead man’s body, then went to Handy’s horse and mounted up.

  Zeke glanced around to be sure no one was about, then dragged Handy’s body just inside the shaft entrance so that it would not be lying out in the open. Then he walked farther back into the shaft.

  There was no sound, save the quiet dripping of water here and there. He picked up a lantern that Handy had left so that he could see his way through the dark cavern, his heart already screaming at the thought of poor Abbie lying in this dark, damp shaft for weeks.

  “Abbie?” he called out. There was no reply. He kept walking, searching with the lantern. Finally he thought he heard a raspy breathing. “Abbie-girl?” he called out again. Someone coughed, a deep, ominous cough that bespoke sickness, perhaps pneumonia. He ran toward the sound until finally the lantern shed its light on a soiled mattress and a woman’s naked body lying tied to stakes. His eyes widened, and at first he had to turn around and struggle to keep his composure. What he had seen could not be his Abbie. What he had seen was more like a skeleton, white skin on bones, sunken eyes, a bruised body lying in its own waste, the beautiful hair tangled and stringy. He threw his head back and breathed deeply for control, begging the spirits to give him the strength he would need now for her. The horrible pain was in his chest again, and his breathing was labored.

  He set the lamp down and turned back around, a groan exiting his lips from somewhere deep in his soul. He went to his knees, bending over her and touching her bony face. “Abbie-girl!” he whispered. At first there was no reply, and she seemed dead. He whipped out his knife and quickly cut the leather cords that held her, gently kissing each wrist and ankle and lightly massaging them to get the circulation going. He looked around and saw a blanket hanging from a peg nearby. He quickly ripped it down and threw it over her. Then he noticed the little music box and his shirt lying beside her. His heart wrenched with pain. She must have brought the things with her when they first took her, faithfully believing her husband would come for her. He leaned over her and carefully wrapped the blanket around her, not caring about her soiled condition or the way she looked—not caring about anything but that it was his Abbie and at least she was still alive. And deep down beneath his initial remorse and horror lay a secret pride that his Abbie-girl was still the stubborn, strong woman he had married. She had suffered all of this and had never told Winston Garvey where his half-breed son could be found.

  “Abbie! My Abbie!” he groaned, pulling her frail body into his arms. So small! Surely she was even smaller than the fifteen-year-old girl he had fallen in love with so many years ago! “Don’t you die on me, Abbie-girl,” he whispered. He held her close, sitting on his knees and rocking her gently. He kissed her cheek, her eyes, cradling her in one arm while he smoothed back her hair with his other hand. She was hot and damp in spite of the cold shaft, and fear gripped him. Her body convulsed and she began coughing, a deep, dangerous cough that shook her whole body. He held her tightly until it was over, and the coughing seemed to rouse her.

  She cried out and pushed at him then, a weak, futile effort, no strength in her movements, just fear and a lingering stubborn pride. Her blanket started falling away and he grasped her arms tightly, wrapping the blanket around her again and holding her tight against himself as she let out a pitiful wail of surrender.

  “It’s all right, Abbie. It’s over. I’m here. Zeke’s here and we’re going home to the children.”

  She heard the words somewhere in the distance. Surely she had finally died and now Zeke’s spirit called to her. Perhaps he was dead also. Yes, she must be dead and perhaps in heaven, for she was warm, and someone was holding her gently, not beating her or doing vile things to her. She began to relax, and her breath came in choking sobs. “Zeke,” she whimpered. “Where … are you? I … can’t … see you.”

  “I’m right here, Abbie. It’s all right now. We’re going home.”

  The words sounded closer now, and when she breathed the scent was familiar, the smell of the earth and leather, the light scent of sweet sage that he sometimes rubbed through his soft, clean hair or that got on his moccasins when he walked in it. Now it all began to become more clear to her. Zeke! Could she truly be alive, and could he truly be here, holding her in his arms?

  She forced her eyes to open. She was still in the hated cave, but she was warm, and someone was holding her. The long, soft hair was against her lips.

  “Zeke! Zeke!” she whimpered then. “Oh God, it’s you! Sweet Jesus! Oh, thank God!” The words came out in gasps and she started coughing again. He held her tightly while the terrible coughing gripped her, his heart crying out for her, his throat aching with a need to weep.

  “Hang on, Abbie. Don’t talk any more,” he told her, pulling her back into his arms. “I’m taking you home and making you well.”

  The horror of it hit her as she became more alert, roused now from the hopeless stupor she had allowed herself to fall into, her body’s own way of protecting her from the reality of her condition and the rapes. But now he was here, and in spite of her joy at his presence, the awfulness of what had happened to her made her wish she was dead. How would her husband feel about her now? How could anything ever be right between them again? And she could smell her own soiled condition, realizing she had not been bathed since being brought to the mine shaft; lately she hadn’t even been untied to go to the bathroom. Yet Zeke was holding her, even kissing her face now, her hair, her eyes.

  “Let me … go,” she whimpered. “Don’t look … at me. Leave me here … to die.”

  “Don’t talk foolish, Abbie-girl,” he told her gently. “We’re going home. Don’t you want to see the children again? They’re all waiting for you, Abbie. All of them. They want their mother back.”

  She choked in a sob and met his eyes for the first time. How beautiful he looked! How utterly savage and handsome. She did not have to ask how he had found her or managed to get to her. She knew her husband, and she knew instinctively that Winston Garvey must be dead, as well as the two men who had kept her captive in the shaft. There would be time for explanations later. So much to talk about! So much! Where had he been? What had happened to him back East? That didn’t matter now. He was here! He had come just
like she knew he would come. How wonderful he looked! Zeke! Her Zeke! And yet …

  A terrible shame filled her eyes as she looked at him, mixed with a strange panic. “I’m not … just yours … anymore,” she whispered. His grip on her tightened.

  “Don’t ever say that again,” he told her. “You’re too sick to even worry about that now. We’ll talk about it, Abbie. When it’s time.” He put a hand to the side of her face. “You remember one thing and one thing only while you are healing, Abigail Monroe! I was your first man, I am the only man to whom you have ever willingly surrendered. To them your body was just a thing. They never truly touched you at all.”

  Tears spilled down the sides of her face and into her ears, and she broke into pitiful sobbing, a terrible, moaning wail that racked her body painfully, the kind of tears that came from the deepest fathoms of the soul; and if cutting out his own heart would change what had happened to her, he would do it.

  He reached over and picked up the music box and his shirt, then lifted her in his arms. “Let’s go out into the sunshine, Abbie. That’s all you need. Just the warmth of the hot sun on your skin and fresh air.” He kissed her hair. “Stop your crying now, Abbie-girl. You need your strength, baby. Don’t let them win by making you cry this way. Come on. Wolf’s Blood is on his way back with the horses. It’s all right now. Everything is all right.”

  “No! Don’t let … him see me this way!” she wept.

  “Don’t you worry about that. We’ll get you away from this damned place and then I’ll clean you all up, Abbie-girl. I brought all the things I need. I brought soaps and creams and a nice clean flannel gown. We’ll fix up a travois and we’ll go find a nice, clean stream where I’ll get you all cleaned up. And I have liniment and some laudanum. We’ll doctor you ourselves, and once you get some sun and fresh air you’ll start feeling better. You’ll see. We’ll go home and we’ll all be together again.”

  She was too weakened to argue any further. She tried to stop the crying, but the tears just kept coming. She nestled her head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent that was Zeke Monroe, allowing herself to glory in the strength of his arms. Zeke! He was truly here, holding her, talking to her. Surely she could never be a proper wife to him again. But for now she would just be glad that he was here and that the war in the East had not claimed him. Whether or not they could overcome the horror of the things that had torn into their great love while he was gone was yet to be discovered. For now she must cherish the moment, and she must cling to life for the sake of her children. Even if he never wanted her again, she must think about the children. The children!

  Soon she felt the wonderful warmth on her face, smelled the sweet, clean air.

  “Father!” she heard Wolf’s Blood calling. Wolf’s Blood! The last she had seen of him was when Handy had hit her son over the head before they rode off with her. How long ago was that? Two months at least. But she had lost all track of time, lying in the shaft with no idea whether or not the sun was out. She had often wondered if her eldest son had been killed that day. Now she could hear his voice. How she wanted to look at him! To hold him! Yet in her shame and her miserable condition, she could not bring herself to even turn her head from Zeke’s shoulder to look at her son.

  “Mother!” she heard him saying then, standing close. She felt his hand on her hair and she cringed, curling up more into Zeke’s arms.

  Zeke met his son’s horrified look, seeing that the boy could hardly believe that the skeletal woman with the gnarled hair that he held could truly be his mother. The boy turned away and made a strange choking sound.

  “Get rid of the body inside the mine shaft, Wolf’s Blood,” Abbie heard Zeke saying. “Let’s get the hell out of here and find a decent place where I can bathe your mother and get her settled onto a travois. I’ll ride with her in my arms until we find a place.”

  Wolf’s Blood only nodded, then went into the shaft. Zeke sat down on a large, flat boulder, cradling Abbie in his arm and letting her head rest in the crook of his arm so that the sun shone down on it. Beneath the dirty, sunken face and tangled hair, he saw his Abbie was still there, that her beauty would return with her recovery and the pounds he would put back on her bones by making her eat. She opened her eyes and met his again, seeing the little boy she always saw when he thought something that had happened to her was his fault.

  “My Zeke,” she said lovingly. “You’re alive.” Her eyes pained. “How I … must look! I’m so ashamed … that you should come home and … see me this way.” The tears started coming again, and he gently brushed them away with his fingers.

  “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he told her. “You’ve never looked prettier, Abbie-girl.” He closed his eyes and pulled her close again, hugging her as tightly as he dared. “Abbie, God I love you, Abbie! I missed you so! When I came home and learned they had taken you …” He rubbed his cheek against her face and hair. “I’ve been half crazy ever since. I never should have left. I never, never should have left! Why do I always leave you? God, forgive me, Abbie.”

  “I told you to go,” she whispered. “Tell me … you saw him … your father,” she added, growing weaker again. “Tell me, Zeke. Please tell me you saw him.”

  He broke into his own quiet tears. He would not tell her all of it yet. It would be too much. “I saw him. It’s all right, Abbie-girl. And I found Danny and took him home to the farm.”

  “I’m … glad,” she whispered. “Now if only … you and I … can be husband and wife again. But I … can’t … and you won’t … want me … even if I could.”

  He rubbed his cheek against her own, their tears mixing. “How wrong you are, Abbie! I’ve never stopped wanting you from the moment I first saw you. And I want you now, more than I have ever wanted you.”

  Twenty-Seven

  There followed days and weeks of fever and fear of death, and the initial worry over living at all helped buffer Abigail Monroe’s deeper, unseen injuries. For weeks she knew nothing but terrible nightmares in her sleeping hours and spells of dangerous coughing in her waking moments. But each time he was there—her Zeke—holding her, soothing her, ever patient, ever gentle.

  A lamp was kept constantly lit so she would not awaken to darkness and think she was back in the cave. Once when it went out and Abbie woke up screaming, Zeke scolded Margaret so harshly that he made the girl cry and later had to apologize to her.

  They were tense weeks, the joy of having both mother and father back dampened by fear of Abbie’s illness and the shadow of her mental state. Their immediate fears were accompanied by a deeper, unspoken fear—that somehow someone would trace the raid on the Garvey ranch to Zeke Monroe and his son. The newspaper in Denver spewed out bold headlines for days and weeks about the disappearance of Winston Garvey and two of his men. There seemed to be no valid link between their disappearance and the Indian raid, and no particular Indian settlement could be blamed, with any tangible proof, for the raid on the ranch, except that the arrows found in Garvey men were Cheyenne. Yet no Cheyenne seemed to have any idea about the raid, nor were any Garvey horses found in any Cheyenne camp.

  After several weeks the excitement and rumors dwindled, and Charles Garvey came home to take over his empire, not nearly as upset over his father’s disappearance as some thought he might be. It was generally accepted that Winston Garvey must be dead, but no bodies were found.

  Soon thereafter, trouble began to explode with the Northern Cheyenne and the Sioux again in the North, and people began to forget about Winston Garvey. Some of the Indian raids were led by a Cheyenne warrior called Swift Arrow. The whites, and even the warriors who rode with Swift Arrow, would have been astonished to know that the warrior who led so many raids against white settlements was himself in love with a white woman, his raids in part a retaliation against whites who would harm one of their own for being a friend to the Indian. And when Zeke heard about the new raids to the north, he knew secretly that the ones led by Swift Arrow were his brothe
r’s way of drawing attention to the north, away from Zeke, until the speculation over Winston Garvey’s disappearance settled to a less dangerous level. Zeke had found his white woman. Now she needed time to heal.

  Through all the headlines and the raids, the Monroe family kept quietly to themselves, and no woman could have been more pampered and loved through a sickness than Abbie. Each child did his share of chores and took turns feeding his mother and doing everything he could for her. None of them showed one sign of shame or disrespect for what had happened to her, and the younger ones did not understand. They only knew that their mother was sick and the men who had taken her had hurt her.

  Often Tall Grass Woman came to help with Abbie’s care, fussing and clucking over the harm that had come to her good white woman friend. Her humorous attempts at speaking English and at trying to keep up a white woman’s house helped Abbie through the painful memories; the love of her children, and Zeke’s strong arms and gentle patience, gave her the strength she needed to hang on through the nightmares and the sickness. When the children or Tall Grass Woman brought her food, she ate more to please them and satisfy their worried hearts than because she had any appetite. But her motive for eating brought the same desired end. She began gaining back some weight as well as strength and color.

  By mid-October Abbie was up and dressed, slowly taking over her motherly and wifely duties—save one. Zeke had not touched her sexually since bringing her home, but eventually his need to be a husband to her again and to reclaim her became so intense that he stopped coming to their bed when her nightmares finally began to leave her. To lie beside her just to hold her was impossible, and so he did not sleep with her at all, knowing that if he did so, he would want to make love to her, and she was not ready for such things. But his absence in the night and the business of just getting well and getting back to normal had kept them from talking about the one matter that most needed discussion, the one element of their marriage and their love that each needed from the other for strength.