Rachel felt Nellie’s eyes on her, burning into her skin. If she could only get up the courage to beg someone to talk to her, she might learn why everyone seemed to hate her.
Chapter Six
The matron of the boarding school, an older woman who had temporarily replaced Harry Ritter, had fled the reservation the moment she heard news of the fire. Jason had watched her leave, her lack of concern for the welfare of the children evident in her hasty departure.
As he picked his way through the debris, he couldn’t help but feel ill at the waste. And Tully was right. This fire hadn’t started by itself. Incendiaries, as sure as he stood in the ruins, had been used. But by whom?
Tully limped toward him from across the road. He arrived at the building and stood in silence for a moment. “Well, what do ya think?”
“I think you’re right. This was set on purpose.”
Tully scratched his chin. “Any ideas?”
“They’d been warned, you know,” Jason answered, massaging his neck.
“Who’d been warned?”
“The day the boarding school opened, Ty Holliday and his bunch living up in the hills refused to send their children. Don’t you remember the squabble we had over that?”
“Yep, I do remember. You think Holliday did this? Set fire to the school?”
“He’s an ornery cuss. I think he’d be tempted.” Jason dug the toe of his boot into a blackened board, flipping the wood into the air. It landed on a soft bed of soot, sending up great plumes of gray powder.
“Ya think he and his renegades done in Weber and Ritter, too?”
The memory of the unusually violent message left on the dismembered bodies made him shudder. It still puzzled him. “Maybe. But you know that whole group that refuses to live here had threatened to burn down the building before it even opened. The hills are full of Indian traditionalists, Earl. Ty is the most militant of them. But murder…” He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. All the people living in the hills firmly believe that the white schools are undermining and disintegrating native culture.” He picked up a book, the pages blackened and burned like an ancient scroll. Only the spine remained intact.
“Hell, in a sense they’re right.”
Jason tossed the useless book aside. “I know. But they’re going about this the wrong way.”
Tully pulled out a cigarette, glanced around at the destruction, and put the cigarette back in his pocket. “Not accordin’ to them they ain’t.”
Jason remembered his conversation with Buck. “Did you check out Buck’s story for the night Weber was murdered?”
“I’ve tried, but no one’s talkin’. Especially if it means clearin’ an Injun.”
“I don’t want to believe he had anything to do with the murders, Earl. He’s like a brother to me.”
“But he’s a mighty angry young man. Hell, he had cause. And,” Tully added, “it’s a mighty big coincidence that he got that stab wound in the same place Jeremy Weber stabbed his killer.”
“I know, I know,” Jason answered, unwilling to believe the evidence. “And he feels the only way to get even is sabotage—even if it means sabotaging the system itself.” But even as he said the words, he still hoped Buck wasn’t responsible. As angry as Buck was about everything, Jason couldn’t imagine that Buck would take part in the destruction of life and property.
A beam fell from the rafters at the far end of the building and landed on a charred desk. This “incident” sickened Jason. It went against everything he’d been taught. Property was valuable. The loss of the school would set the reservation back thousands of dollars.
Jason swung away from the ruins and wondered if Buck would come by later, after he’d heard the news. He just didn’t want to believe Buck was involved. Maybe he was too close to see how much Buck had really changed. But Buck had ties here. He might be angry as hell at the way the world was treating his people, but he wouldn’t do something to threaten the lives of anyone near and dear to him. And Nell and Dixie were Honey’s sisters. Matthew and Martin were Buck’s nephews. No, Buck wouldn’t do anything to hurt them.
“The folks in town run scared when they hear things like this. Most of ’em don’t understand why the Injuns are fightin’ a decent education. ’Course,” Tully added, pulling out the cigarette again, “it don’t help when Injuns learn that the Whites won’t allow the small tykes to speak the language they was born to speak.”
Jason stepped over a heap of incinerated rubbish and walked away from the burned-out shell. “No one’s going to win, Earl. We’re all going to lose.”
He looked up as Nell raced toward him. “Nell? What’s wrong?”
When she reached them, Nell was hardly out of breath, but her face was drawn with pain. “It’s Matthew. He’s not breathing.”
Rachel stood beside Dixie, frantic because she had no idea how to help. Little Matthew, whose breathing had been labored since the fire, lay lifeless in his mother’s arms. Dixie rocked back and forth, chanting something Rachel didn’t understand.
The door whipped open and Jason, the marshal, and Nell hurried into the room. Jason held his arms out so the other two would stay behind him. Slowly he hunkered down beside Dixie and the boy.
“Dixie,” he said softly, “give the boy to me.”
Dixie clutched the small body to her breast and continued chanting, the poignant sound pulling at Rachel’s heart.
Rachel tossed Jason a hard look. Why wasn’t he doing something? Why didn’t he just take the child from her?
“Dixie, maybe I can help him. Will you let me help him?” Jason’s voice was tender and earnest, but Rachel could sense the panic behind the gentle facade. Still, she wondered why he didn’t just take the child away from the mother.
Suddenly Dixie thrust the boy at Jason. He took Matthew and immediately began to blow air into his mouth. Dixie continued to chant, the sound becoming higher and more frantic as Jason worked on her son.
Rachel felt someone pull on her cape. Turning, she found herself looking into Nell’s agitated, hate-filled face.
“You,” she hissed under her breath. “You don’t belong here. Get out.”
Rachel was dumbfounded. She looked at Jason for support, but he was oblivious, working hard to save the child. She didn’t want to cause trouble, but she wanted to stay.
Nell tugged her toward the door. “Get out,” she repeated. “I don’t want you here. This is a place for family.” They stepped outside. “And friends,” she added vehemently.
Rachel stumbled away from her, sick to her stomach at the hate she saw in Nell’s face. “Please… I… I’d like to help.”
If looks could kill, Nell’s would have been a stake through Rachel’s heart. With an angry wave of her hand, she went back into the cabin, leaving Rachel bemused outside in the cold.
As she’d reluctantly settled into Dixie’s cabin, ignoring the stares from the curious Indians around her, Rachel hadn’t had time to think about her fears. Before she’d even gotten a good look at the room, the little boy, Matthew, had begun to wheeze and choke. Instinctively, she’d wanted to help, despite her earlier feelings of fear and hatred. But as she moved toward Dixie and the boy, a woman she didn’t know held her back.
She watched in horror as Nell ran for Jason, leaving the boy lifeless in his mother’s arms. She could have done what Jason did; she’d done it once or twice before. Shuddering, she wondered what would have happened to her if she’d wrestled Dixie for the child.
Numb with an odd hurt, Rachel walked down the path that led to the other buildings. Her own private pain slowly fell away as she moved through the village. Numerous small structures had been built to form a square. She recognized the sawmill and the gristmill; she wasn’t sure what the other two were. Four young Indian children, dressed in shabby, yet warm clothes, played kickball over the lush, grassy hillside.
An old man sat stiffly by an outdoor fire, picking at something on his ar
ms. Recognizing him as Joseph, John Hart’s sometimes-forgetful father, and remembering their last meeting, she felt herself blush. She continued to dredge up her feelings of confusion, wondering why John Hart hated her. Now, she could add Nell to that list as well.
Remembering that Joseph’s arms had been burned in the fire, she approached him cautiously. “You’re Joseph, aren’t you?”
He looked at her, but there was no evidence of recognition. “My skin must breathe,” he said, stretching both bandaged arms in her direction.
Strangely, Rachel felt neither fear nor revulsion. Of course, from the beginning she’d felt he was just a sweet, harmless old man, in spite of the fact that she’d wanted to run away when she’d seen him the first time. She sat down beside him on the log bench and took his hands in hers.
“You’ve been burned quite badly. They say you tried to put the fire out by yourself. You’re very brave.”
He gripped her fingers. “My skin must breathe,” he repeated.
“But,” she answered, “you mustn’t think about that. Leave the bandages on. Please be patient, Joseph.”
“I am a patient man. If I were not, I would be dead.”
Rachel didn’t try to decipher the cryptic statement. Instead, she examined the bandages. The only thing seeming to seep through the cloth was the salve.
“Then, if you’re a patient man, you’ll leave the bandages alone. Nellie and the doctor didn’t wrap your wounds so carefully just so you could unwrap them. If you do, you could get an infection.”
A tiny smile flickered across his lips. “You are not a bad woman. You are just a bossy one.”
She guessed that was a compliment, but the statement also alarmed her. “Someone thinks I am a bad person? Who, Joseph?” Maybe she’d finally learn something.
He shook his head. “You are not a bad person, like John and Nellie think. That is all I have to say.”
Frowning at this news, she tucked his bandaged hands and cold fingers beneath the blanket that rested over his knees. “I don’t understand it, Joseph,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “I just don’t understand what I’ve done.” She still felt that if anyone had a reason to hate, it was she.
She got up to leave. “Don’t sit out here too long. It’s cold today.”
“I will get some nourishment soon,” he answered.
Glancing at his bandaged arms and hands, she asked, “But how will you eat it?”
“I will manage.”
She left him, but worried about him as she wandered away. Suddenly the memory of Elbee’s bout with influenza burst into her mind, and she felt the familiar burning hatred and distrust once again. They’d brought him into the house when he’d gotten so sick, and Rachel had even given up her bed for him so her mother and Aunt Billie could treat him properly. Then, not three months later he’d killed them all… Too trusting. They’d been naïve and trusting. It wouldn’t happen to her.
Briefly glancing back at Joseph, she steeled herself against his apparent helplessness, then walked toward a freshly painted log building that sat beneath the pines.
She crossed the hard, needle-covered earth, pulled open the door, and peeked inside. Fresh baking smells invaded her nostrils. An Indian woman was on her knees, kneading bread on a thick, wide board. She looked up as Rachel stepped into the room, then quickly went back to her work.
Rachel stepped closer.
“Can I help you?”
Rachel turned, noticing an older white woman stirring something in a large cooking vat.
“I… I’m sorry, I smelled the bread as I was walking by, and I had to find out—”
“You had to find out if Indians ate the same kind of food as white folks, right?” The woman tasted what she was cooking, then put the large spoon on a plate near the stove.
“No,” Rachel answered with a tentative smile. “I… I thought maybe I could get something for Joseph. He’s hungry, and he—” She couldn’t believe what she’d just said. Not a minute ago, she’d vowed to ignore Joseph. Now, she was asking some strange woman to prepare his lunch. She was, without a doubt, the weakest-willed woman alive.
“And he wants lunch,” the woman interrupted.
Rachel gave herself a shake. Forget it, she thought. I don’t have to do this. But as she turned to leave, she found herself saying, “Do… do you mind fixing him something? He’ll have trouble eating it because of his burns, but I’ll help him if he’ll let me.”
The woman looked her up and down. “You Weber’s widow?”
Rachel nodded, feeling a foolish flush spread up her neck.
The woman stared at her a while longer, then looked away, a rather snide half-grin on her face. “You’re not what I expected.”
“I… I’m not?”
Shaking her head, she pulled down a tin filled with tortillas, spread one on the counter and ladled some spicy-smelling beans over it. “Sort of thought the ‘great’ Jeremy Weber’d have a looker,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm.
And no one would look at me twice. I know. She was used to such comments. They no longer hurt. And she’d stopped thinking that Jeremy had married her because he’d been madly in love with her beauty. The trouble was, she was honestly beginning to wonder why he had married her.
Rather than continue talking with the woman, she simply said, “I’ll take the lunch out to Joseph.”
The Indian woman crossed in front of Rachel and gave her a shy smile. It was the first pleasant look she’d gotten from anyone all day—other than Joseph. In spite of herself, she smiled back, then looked around the clean, well-appointed room.
“Not what you expected, huh?”
Rachel glanced at the older woman. “I beg your pardon?”
“Thought maybe they’d all be living in shacks and eating with their fingers, I suppose.”
“I… I didn’t really know what to expect.” That wasn’t entirely true. Jeremy had frightened her into believing she wouldn’t be safe walking through the reservation, and, because of her fears, she’d believed him. Maybe she’d wanted to believe him, for it gave her an excuse to avoid the place. Now she could see that he’d deliberately lied to her. But why? To keep her safe? She couldn’t think of any other explanation.
“Did you know my husband very well?”
The woman scowled, but didn’t look up. “Well enough.”
“You didn’t like him,” Rachel said with a sudden flash of insight.
“ ’Twasn’t up to me to like him or hate him.”
Rachel crossed to the stove and touched the woman’s arm. She gave Rachel a hard look, but said nothing more. “What did he do?”
“What didn’t he do—”
“There you are!”
Rachel turned. Jason stood in the doorway. He swung his gaze from her to the woman at the stove. “I need some help, Rachel.”
Disappointed that she hadn’t been able to learn more, Rachel nodded to the two women and followed Jason outside. They stopped in front of the door.
“How’s little Matthew?” She was almost afraid to hear his answer.
“He’s breathing, anyway. Listen,” he said, grabbing her arm and glaring at her. “If you can’t stand to stay near me when I’m working, then you might as well leave.”
“But, I—” What could she say that wouldn’t sound peevish and spiteful? Her dignity rumpled by his callous remark, she pulled herself from his grip. “Believe me,” she answered, “it won’t happen again. But that Bluenose woman all but dragged me out the door. I couldn’t do anything but follow her.”
“Horse,” he said, appearing to swallow a grin.
“What?”
“Bluehorse.”
“Oh,” she whispered, feeling quite foolish. “Yes, of course. Bluehorse.”
“Well,” he said, continuing to glare down at her, “come with me now.” He walked away.
She didn’t follow him. “I promised Joseph I’d get him some lunch.”
Jason’s arrogance was really beginning to annoy her.
“All right,” he said, his voice strangely accommodating, “let’s get Joseph some lunch.” He steered her back inside.
After Joseph had eaten, they left him rolled in a bed roll under a pine tree.
“Why won’t he go into the cabin?” Rachel was concerned that the old man would catch pneumonia, or at least a cold, sleeping outdoors.
“He refuses to sleep in a building. Many of the old ones feel as he does. They prefer their antiquated shelters.”
They walked in silence. Rachel noticed how completely at home he appeared to be here. Everyone loved him. Even the dogs followed him wherever he went.
“Why did you wait so long to breathe into Matthew’s mouth?”
He glanced down at her, his dark, sultry stare making her uncomfortable. “You mean, why didn’t I rush in and grab the boy from his mother?”
She nodded, falling headlong into his magical, heated gaze. “I… I would have thought… you were wasting precious time.”
“I suppose I was. But what if I’d grabbed the boy and hadn’t been able to save him? Dixie would have blamed me for his death. She’d have felt that her chanting might have saved him, but that I’d interrupted it. As it was,” he added, “she gave Matthew to me willingly. Whatever the outcome, it was her decision.”
It made sense—on a basic, primitive level. “Will he be all right?”
“I hope so,” he said on a sigh. “I’m going to check on him now.”
Rachel’s steps faltered. Another confrontation with Nell.
“What’s wrong?” he asked harshly.
“Oh, it’s… it’s nothing, really.” She bent over and pretended to remove something from her shoe. “I… I just stepped on something, that’s all,” she lied.
They stopped at Dixie’s cabin. He let her go in ahead of him. She stepped into the room, relieved to find Nell nowhere in sight. Dixie was lying on the floor in front of the fire, Matthew in the crook of her arm.
Jason hunkered down in front of her and touched the boy’s cheek. “He’s sleeping, Dixie. Why don’t you get some rest, too?”
Heat of a Savage Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Two Page 10
