“Me?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, squeezing his hands. “You are Zeke’s nephew—the son of Yellow Moon … and Winston Garvey,” she told him carefully. “Yellow Moon was killed by soldiers at Blue Water Creek, and Swift Arrow, being a Dog Soldier, did not want the burden of a crippled child. He gave the child to Zeke and Abbie, and they brought him to me. He was called Crooked Foot. I renamed him Joshua … and I have loved him as my own son ever since … the child I could never have.”
The boy’s eyes teared. “Then … I am part Indian!”
“Yes,” she whispered.
The boy blinked and swallowed, rising from the bed. “I am part Indian!” he said again quietly. He turned to face her, and she couldn’t quite read his eyes. Did he still love her? Was he angry? “Why didn’t you tell me a long time ago?”
“Because I wanted to be sure you were mature enough to handle it. I always thought you had the right to know, Joshua, someday. Now that you’re going east, and anything could happen out here while you’re gone, I thought the time was right. You’re a mature, intelligent young man.”
He turned away, running a hand through his hair, then lowering it and looking at his skin. “I don’t feel Indian. I don’t look Indian.”
“Neither do some of Zeke’s children. But they are, just the same.” She swallowed, her heart tight. “Do you hate me now, Joshua?”
He turned to look at her, this gentle woman who had been so good to him and had loved him like her own son. He smiled, tears in his eyes. “How can I hate my own mother? I’m just … so shocked.” He walked over to a dresser, staring into a mirror, studying himself. “I do have high cheekbones, don’t you think?”
She smiled. “Yes, you do.”
He turned back to face her. “Arapaho?”
“Yes.”
He frowned. “I’d rather it was Cheyenne.”
“What?”
“Well, if I’m going to be part Indian, I’d rather be what Zeke is.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You mean you don’t care?”
The boy shrugged. “I think it’s kind of exciting. I’ve always felt the Indians have been treated unfairly. Now I have all the more reason to do what I can to help them. That’s what I intend to do, you know. I’ll go east to get my education, and then I’m coming back here to do what I can to help them. Maybe I’ll get into Congress or something—get some legislation passed that will benefit the Indian. Or maybe I’ll be a doctor and come out here and help them like Grandfather did. I’m not really sure, except that I do like writing and journalism. Maybe I can help them that way. What do you think?”
Bonnie smiled and shook her head. “I don’t know what to think. I thought you’d be angry and upset.”
The boy looked into the mirror again. “There isn’t really much I can do about it, is there? And it’s not so bad. In fact, I could fool some people, get some of those white men to help me pass legislation in favor of the Indian, maybe get a job for some big eastern newspaper and tell people out there what’s really happening—you know, from a man who’s ‘been there.’ Then I’ll surprise them all when I tell them I’m part Indian myself. There are all kinds of possibilities.”
He turned back to face her, and she rose, sobering again. “Joshua, there is something else—something you must remember always. You must never say who your father is.”
“Why not? In fact, if he was such a prominent businessman, maybe I have something coming to me.”
“Joshua, you’d never be able to prove it—not enough to satisfy courts. You’d have only Zeke’s word, and to drag him and Abbie into a court battle would only bring them a great deal of trouble. Winston Garvey’s son, Charles, would make things very bad for them, and he’d fight it to the bitter end. It wouldn’t be worth the terrible things Zeke and Abbie might suffer.”
The boy frowned. “I have a half brother?”
“Charles Garvey. He’s older than you, and the last we knew he was somewhere east himself in law apprenticeship. He’s hard to keep track of. I only know that Zeke swore us to secrecy about your identity. He knows the kind of man Winston Garvey was, and that he’d have had you killed if he knew. He was an avowed Indian hater, Joshua. And if his son knew he had a half brother who was part Indian, he would do everything in his power to silence you—including having you killed. He’s as wealthy and powerful as his father was, Joshua. So if you want to say you’re part Indian, that’s fine. But don’t tell who your father was. Do you understand? Promise me, Joshua. Zeke nearly died saving my life once. And they’ve been through so much. I do not intend to put them through a court battle over your identity, nor do I want you killed, with perhaps harm coming also to Zeke and Abbie. Charles Garvey would do anything he could to silence them.”
The boy sighed. “I need to go outside and be alone awhile, Mother. I need to let all this sink in—need to think.” He walked toward the door.
“Joshua!”
He turned to face her, seeing terror and tears in her eyes. “Promise me you won’t tell!”
He sighed. What good would it do? He didn’t need Charles Garvey’s money anyway. He’d make it on his own and prove what a half-breed could do. He’d show a few people up, be a success, and then surprise them be telling them he was part Indian. Maybe the time would come when he could tell who his real father was. But he had too much to accomplish first, and he didn’t care to bring trouble to Zeke and Abbie any more than his mother did.
“I promise,” he told her.
She blinked back tears. “I love you, Joshua. I truly love you as my own.”
He nodded. “I know that, Mother.”
The boy walked out, and she went over to the dresser, pulling open a drawer and taking out the bone necklace Zeke had given her so many years ago after saving her from the outlaws. Yes, she had loved him then, probably still did in her own secret way. But she had Dan now, and for the first time in her life she felt fulfilled. She could never have had Zeke, for he had Abbie. She carefully replaced the necklace. Now if Joshua could accept what he was and not hate her for it, her happiness would be complete. She had finally told him the secret of his past, and a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
Chapter Eight
Dinner around the Monroe table was quiet. Abbie was torn between wanting to be friendly to the strange Apache girl Wolf’s Blood had brought home, and anger at Zeke for not conferring with her about scouting before going to Fort Lyon to offer his services. Zeke ate little, worried he would not be able to convince her his only reason was to help the Cheyenne. She was a wise, all-seeing woman, and she knew him well. The last thing he wanted was for her to know about the arthritis.
Sonora ate quietly and mannerly. She knew the ways of the whites, even though she was related to the great Chiricahua guerilla fighter, Cochise, something that made Wolf’s Blood beam with pride when she told them. Here was a girl with good, strong blood, in addition to her exquisite beauty. Like Cochise, who was a cousin, she was somewhat taller than most Apaches, and she carried a grace and beauty that set her apart from the others.
“Sonora’s parents worked on a ranch that helped supply the Butterfield stage stations with food and wood,” Wolf’s Blood told his mother as he ate. “The ranchers were also missionaries and had saved Sonora’s life once. Her parents became Catholics, and lived on the ranch and helped them. That is where Sonora learned how whites live, even though she also knows the Apache ways and misses some of her other relatives.”
Sonora just looked at her plate and ate slowly as he talked, feeling self-conscious at being the center of attention.
“Then Mexican bandits raided the ranch and killed everyone. They took Sonora and sold her to a whiskey trader, who brought her to Fort Lyon and resold her to the storekeeper, for a profit. Luckily none of them abused her. She is still a—”
“Wolf’s Blood,” Abbie spoke up quickly. “You’ll embarrass Sonora—and your sister Ellen.” He scowled and Abbie smiled. “We understand, my son
. And we’re glad. There isn’t one of us here who doesn’t understand the terror of what Sonora experienced. I’m glad you found her at Fort Lyon. And I’m glad she’s here. She can sleep in the loft, and she can help me with the chores around this place that I never seem to be able to keep up with.”
Sonora looked up at her then and smiled softly. “I will do whatever you ask of me, Mrs. Monroe.”
“The name is Abbie. And I don’t intend to make a slave of you, but any help is appreciated. And if you want to go home—back to Apache country—Wolf’s Blood will take you, just as he promised.”
Sonora looked at Wolf’s Blood and they both smiled. How he warmed her heart! Why should she go home before finding out just how much this brave, young Cheyenne warrior might care for her?
Abbie watched the way they looked at each other and smiled to herself, glancing at Zeke. Both were hoping this girl would become a wife and would make their wild son a little tamer.
“I will stay here,” the girl spoke up to Abbie. “It is Wolf’s Blood’s home, and his family is very kind. Your home is very nice, and the ranch and horses very beautiful. I think I will like it here. I owe much to Wolf’s Blood—and to your husband, who helped get the money for me by fighting the wrist-wrestling contest. Did he tell you he broke a Pawnee’s arm?”
Abbie’s eyes widened and she gave her husband a chastising look. “No. What else have you not bothered to tell me, my husband?” she asked teasingly, losing some of her anger. Zeke Monroe did not do anything without good purpose. Perhaps she shouldn’t be too angry with him for not telling her about the scouting. What worried her most was that he would be away again. She didn’t like it when he was away.
Zeke cleared his throat and glanced at a smiling Morgan Brown. “Sounds like you almost got yourself in a peck of trouble,” Morgan joked. “All over a pretty little Apache girl.”
Zeke grinned and leaned back in his chair, taking out some tobacco and a paper and rolling himself a cigarette. “It’s my son who gets me in trouble. It would have been worse if I hadn’t walked in when he first spotted Sonora. He was about ready to sink his blade into that storekeeper.” He lit the cigarette and Wolf’s Blood grinned, while Sonora looked down shyly again. “I keep having to remind him he’s not in Indian country anymore. A man can get hung real easy, especially an Indian.” He took a deep drag. “There was a day when it was easy for a man to deal his own justice. I dealt plenty of my own, and I still do when I can get away with it.” He glanced at Margaret. He had killed the white man who had once jilted her badly and turned her to a life of prostitution before she met Morgan Brown. No one knew it—not even Abbie. He didn’t regret it—no more than he regretted killing any of the men he’d killed in revenge, especially Winston Garvey.
“Well, it seems you did almost get yourself in trouble, Mr. Monroe,” Abbie spoke up. “And on top of that you come home telling me you’ll be scouting for the Army. Perhaps you’d like to explain why to all of us—something you haven’t bothered to do yet.”
He met her eyes, and in spite of his strength and skills, his Abbie had a way of unhinging him that made Zeke angry with himself. She’d done it since the day he met her, and he’d never been able to figure out how. She watched him carefully now, too closely. He moved his eyes to Wolf’s Blood, who looked from his father to his mother.
“The renegades are starving and dying, Mother,” the boy spoke up. “In the North, the Sioux and Northern Cheyenne still live well, but even I know that won’t last. Here it is worse. The Southern Cheyenne have no hope of survival at all if they don’t settle on the reservation and stop running.”
She studied him closely. “Much as I am glad you are here with us, my son, I cannot believe it is you speaking such words.” She leaned back and looked from father to son. “I totally agree with the theory, and that scouts with compassion are needed rather than the hated Pawnee. But may I hear a better explanation?”
Zeke took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Two of them are sitting right here at the table—Little Zeke and Nathan. The family seems to be growing instead of getting smaller, and it’s costing more every year to keep this ranch going. Prices of feed and supplies are getting ridiculous. We need the money. It took a lot of our savings to put LeeAnn through school, and Ellen and Jason might want to go, too. I want to be prepared.”
“I thought we were well ahead—”
“I said we need the money!” Zeke snapped.
The table grew silent, and Abbie stared at him, her face crimson. It was not often anyone heard Zeke Monroe get short with his wife. Zeke sighed deeply and rose from the table, walking outside without saying a word. Abbie swallowed and set her fork down. She looked at Sonora.
“Sonora, dear, you haven’t told us your age. You look very young.”
The girl raised her eyes. “I … I am sixteen summers.” The girl looked at Wolf’s Blood. “You have not told me how many summers you have seen.”
The boy was scowling. He did not like to see anger between his parents. “Twenty-four summers,” he answered rather curtly, his eyes on his mother. “Mother, be patient with Father,” he told her. “His heart hurts for the people, that’s all. And so does mine. It is a decision we both made. And it is true that we need the money.”
Abbie sighed deeply. “I am sure it is, Wolf’s Blood. But something is being left out and it frightens me.” She rose from the table. “The rest of you finish your meal. I’m sorry there was a little problem. I’ll go talk to Zeke.”
“Perhaps … perhaps I should go. Perhaps he is upset that I am here,” Sonora spoke up.
Abbie gave her a smile and came around behind her, patting her head. “No, Sonora, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. Having you here will be a help, not a hindrance. And you apparently make Wolf’s Blood happy. Don’t think for one moment that you are not welcome here.” She smoothed the girl’s long black hair, then walked outside.
The summer night was still but for singing crickets. There was a bright moon, and a dark outline far in the distance told of mountains on the horizon, even in the darkness. Abbie strained her eyes to see, then saw the red glow of his cigarette near the corral.
She walked quickly to the spot, calling out to him quietly. He turned and she approached him, and suddenly threw down the cigarette and reached out, grabbing her close and hugging her. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against the broad chest and breathing deeply of the scent of man and leather. “You’re leaving something out, Zeke,” she answered. “But I won’t press you. I guess what upsets me is the thought of you being gone. You know how I always hate it when you’re gone and I don’t know what is happening to you.”
“I’ll make it clear it’s strictly voluntary, Abbie. I won’t be part of the Army. They can’t give me orders or make me stay any longer than I choose. But the pay is good, and in a way I’m helping.” He hugged her tightly and kissed her hair. “I don’t like being away from you either. You know that.” He gently pushed her away then, turning and leaning on the fencing. “Did I ever tell you about Sitting Bear, Abbie?”
“The old Kiowa chief? He’s in Oklahoma on the reservation, isn’t he?”
Zeke sighed. “He’s dead now. He escaped from the reservation, led a raid into Texas—wanted one last great fling, maybe. He got himself arrested, and they held him shackled in a dungeon for a week. Somehow he got hold of a knife, hiding it the morning they finally took him out and put him in a wagon to go to court and be tried. He was chained to the wagon bed and they put a blanket over him, and on the way to court he sang the Kiowa death song and kept putting his head under the blanket. You know what he was doing under there?”
She frowned and put a hand on his arm. “What, Zeke?”
“He was stripping the flesh from his hands with his teeth—with his teeth, Abbie! So that he could slip his hands through the handcuffs. Finally he stood up, holding the knife and giving out a war cry, slashing at one of
the guards and sending two young, healthy men tumbling out of the wagon. A seventy-year-old man standing alone against five troops of cavalry. They shot him down, but he got up again, standing there with his hands gnawed to the bones, pointing a soldier’s rifle at them that he didn’t even know how to use. The soldiers cut him down again until finally he stayed down. One seventy-year-old man, and all the soldiers were in a panic when he stood up and threatened them. But he chose to die fighting all of them rather than go to white man’s court and be hung. He wanted to die the only way an Indian can die—with honor.”
She studied the handsome face in the moonlight. “That’s how you intend to die, isn’t it?” she asked, her heart pounding. “You think perhaps through scouting you’ll find a way to die fighting.”
He looked down at her, then touched her cheek with the back of his hand. How he loved her! The way she looked at him now made him think of the fifteen-year-old girl he’d claimed in the wilds of Wyoming. “That’s part of it. But I don’t intend to go riding away tomorrow and dying. It isn’t anything like that.”
She studied the dark eyes. Perhaps he was already dying—of what she couldn’t be sure. He didn’t want to tell her. She would not ask. And hadn’t she always known it would be this way? Zeke Monroe was not a man to live to a ripe old age and be decrepit. Not Zeke. She wanted to scream and scratch at him. Her breathing came in short gasps and her eyes teared. “I couldn’t live without you!” she whimpered.
He smiled sadly. “Oh yes you could. Abigail Trent Monroe is a survivor, much stronger than she knows. I’m fifty-one years old, Abbie, and these old bones are feeling the effects of years of violence—old wounds.” He stepped back and held out his arms. “But look at me. You certainly don’t think you’re going to lose me tomorrow, do you?”
She studied him through tear-filled eyes—so tall and strong and handsome! Had he really changed in the twenty-six years she’d known him? It didn’t seem so at all. “You … look wonderful,” she sobbed.
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