Eagle’s Song (3 page)

She thought about Margaret. It would be so nice to see her older sister. Margaret was a true Monroe, tough, a fighter. She’d married Morgan Brown, a big, strong mulatto man who had brought love and peace to her during a time when she was lost and confused because she looked so Indian and had been terribly hurt by a white man she’d thought loved her. Yes, Margaret also had strayed for a while, hating her Indian blood. She had turned to prostitution, but inside she was a good and loving woman. What child raised by Abbie Monroe would
not
be good and loving? It was just that they had all grown up during a period when most whites hated Indians … many still did. That hatred had deeply affected some of the Monroe children, those like Margaret and Wolf’s Blood, who looked very Indian, as well as those who showed no sign of their Indian blood … like herself … and Jeremy.

They had all learned to adjust and accept who they were, to be proud of that side of themselves, because their father had been proud and because their mother was proudest of all. “Please make Jeremy come to the reunion,” she quietly prayed.

* * *

“I hate getting on this thing,” Wolf’s Blood grumbled. He watched his mother and Swift Arrow prepare to board the train. “I know that my uncle also hates the trains. They are just another sign of how the white man has destroyed the old ways.”

Jennifer placed a hand on her husband’s arm. She had adored Wolf’s Blood since she’d first met him as a child. She smiled at the thought of what a grand mixture the Monroe family was, how “Indian” some of them could be, like Wolf’s Blood and Swift Arrow, how “white” others were, like LeeAnn. “You grumble too much, dear husband. Life goes on, and the world is constantly changing. Sometimes the changes hurt, but they can’t be stopped, as you well know.”

He sighed, waited, watching each family member board. They had come south with one covered wagon for all the luggage, most of them riding horseback while the children rode in the wagon. Abbie herself had driven the team of horses that pulled it. They had met LeeAnn and Joshua here in Cheyenne, now a thriving city, another sign of white progress. Wolf’s Blood hated cities, hated crowds, hated the idea of riding this train all the way down to Pueblo, where his brother-in-law, Morgan, would meet them with another wagon. Their own wagon and horses would be boarded here in Cheyenne until they returned.

Abbie and Swift Arrow climbed onto the train’s platform, followed by LeeAnn, Joshua and their three children; then Jason, his youngest brother, of whom he was very proud. Jason didn’t look Indian, but he was a handsome young man at twenty-eight, with an Indian’s heart and spirit, a caring man who worked as a doctor on the Cheyenne reservation. He herded his own onto the train then: his seven-year-old stepdaughter, Emily; his fourteen-year-old son, Hawk; his thirteen-year-old
daughter, Iris; his beautiful wife, Jennifer, who pleased him greatly.

Dan and his wife, Rebecca, boarded behind him, and Wolf’s Blood took a seat beside Jennifer, thinking how Zeke would love to see the family together like this. Wolf’s Blood felt his father’s presence almost constantly, and the picture of the burial platform high in the Rockies, where he’d placed his father’s body, was still as vivid in his mind as on the day he’d taken the man there eight years ago. The pain of the loss was sometimes as intense now as it was then.

He glanced at some of the other passengers, well aware that many were staring at the “Indians” who had dared to take seats.
Let them stare
, he thought. Maybe they would begin to understand what they had done to the Cheyenne, the Sioux, the Comanche, the Apache, the Arapaho, the Navajo, the Nez Perce—all of them. Even the old enemies of the Cheyenne, the Crow and Pawnee, were on reservations. It was too bad that old hatreds had kept the various tribes separated during a time when uniting might have helped their cause. He often wondered how it might have been if all Indians had come together in one mighty force against white encroachment. Man for man, any Indian warrior far outmatched almost any white soldier. It had taken thousands of soldiers to round up a mere thirty-five Apache under Geronimo; and again, thousands of soldiers to catch up with and capture a couple of hundred Nez Perce trying to flee to Canada. If all Indians had fought as a force, this land would still belong to them.

He looked out the window as several long screams burst from the engine’s steam whistle and the locomotive began chugging away from the station … toward home … toward Colorado … the old ranch. Again thoughts of his father returned … how he’d died like a warrior, how he’d fought his crippling arthritis and
refused to die in bed. He flexed his own hands. Yes, much as he’d tried to ignore it, he knew without seeing Jason or any other doctor that he was going to gradually develop the same disease, and like his father, he was, by God, not going to die a crippled old man. He’d lived the warrior’s life for many years, and he’d die that way.

He glanced at his mother, caught her watching him. Damn. There was not a more discerning woman on the face of the earth than Abigail Monroe. He’d wanted to keep this from her, just like his father had tried to do. He especially wanted to keep it from Jennifer. He watched his mother’s all-knowing eyes, tried to tell her silently not to say anything. He saw the pain there. No one would better understand what was going through his mind than Abbie. Wolf’s Blood was so like his father. He looked exactly like Zeke, and it seemed the man’s very spirit dwelled in his own soul.

He turned to look back out the window, unable to bear the pain in his mother’s eyes. It was nothing to worry about now. After all, it was just a minor ailment for the present. His father had carried the disease for years before it began to truly cripple him. Wolf’s Blood knew he had a lot of good years left. He had a ranch of his own, where he bred beautiful horses, just as his father had done. He had a beautiful, loving wife, three beautiful children, a son as proud of his Indian blood as he was and his father had been. Hawk was a good boy, smart, handsome; a young man who would learn to live in the white man’s world without losing his identity. He just hoped the boy would be careful about being seen with that agent’s sister. It was a good thing they would be apart for a while. Maybe Arianne Wilder would be gone by the time they got back. It would be best for Hawk if she was.

The train rumbled south. It would go right through Denver. Denver! How he hated that city, where he’d
gotten into trouble more than once, where he’d gotten into his first fight with a young Charles Garvey, the Indian hater his sister had ended up marrying.

Denver … where his sister Margaret had gone and got mixed up in prostitution, after she had been so hurt by a white man that she felt worthless. There she had met and married Morgan Brown, a mulatto who had taught her about love.

Denver … where Jeremy lived now … the one family member no one had seen since he first left the ranch seventeen years ago … no one but himself and Zeke … once … in Kansas. Jeremy had hurt his father so badly that night, still denying his Indian blood, ashamed to admit in public that Zeke and Wolf’s Blood were his father and brother. Would he come to the reunion? Had his mother’s letter to the Union Pacific offices in Denver even reached Jeremy?

Wolf’s Blood’s hands curled into fists at the thought of his brother’s desertion. If Jeremy came, it would be difficult not to light into him and give him what he deserved. Still he knew what joy it would bring to his mother if Jeremy showed up.

The family would be complete then. At the ranch they would meet up with his sister Margaret and her husband Morgan and their children: Zeke, eighteen, named after his grandfather; Nathan, sixteen, and Lance, five. His sister Ellen lived not far away with her husband, Hal, and their children, eight-year-old Lillian and four-year-old Daniel.

So many brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. Young Zeke and his own son Hawk would have much to talk about, since they were nearly the same age. Yes, it would be a happy time for all of them, and one thing he knew for certain … someone else would be there. They wouldn’t see him, but he’d, by God, be there in spirit, laughing with them, crying with them,
holding them, silently guiding and protecting them. Lone Eagle would be with them.

He glanced at his mother again, smiled for her. He had a feeling she knew what he was thinking. She smiled in return, but there were tears in her eyes. There would always be tears in her eyes for her Zeke, until the day came when she could walk
Ekutsihimmiyo
, the golden road that led to the place of beauty where all go in death, where there are no trains, no dirty, noisy cities, no soldiers or settlers … where the grass is green and the prairies are alive with buffalo … where a man can be as free as the wind …

Three

Mary walked into her husband’s study, a large room that smelled of pipe smoke, its walls lined with books. Jeremy Monroe had built a good deal of wealth through his work with the railroad, and Mary was proud of him, proud of the beautiful brick mansion in which they lived in the wealthiest section of Denver. Jeremy was on the board of both the Kansas-Pacific and the Denver & Rio Grande, had started with the railroad as a baggage boy and moved up at an amazing pace because of his intelligence and loyalty, and because of innovative ideas he’d presented to make rail travel more attractive and lucrative, like suggesting better eating establishments at rail stops.

They had been happy, in spite of the hurt she carried because she could not have children. She had thought that was the only pain they would ever have to bear, one they had learned to live with; but eight years ago, when Jeremy had received the letter from his mother telling him his father had died … Never had she seen such alarming depression in her husband. For weeks she had hardly let him out of her sight, terrified he might commit suicide. He still suffered from the fact that his father had died without his ever having gone back home, died thinking his son was ashamed to call him father, ashamed of his Indian blood.

Only when Jeremy had received that letter had Mary
learned the truth about her husband. He’d been afraid to tell her, afraid she wouldn’t love him if she knew he was part Indian. How ridiculous! She loved Jeremy for himself, the good man, loving husband, wonderful provider he was. Mary had urged him ever since to go back home, see his mother. What if she, too, died without his seeing her again?

Now she had caught him staring again at this latest letter from his mother. He’d been invited to go back to the ranch this summer for a family reunion. If ever there was a perfect time to be with his family again, this was it. The letter was an open invitation, love and forgiveness evident between the lines.

“Have you decided yet?”

Jeremy raised his eyes to look at her, unable to hide the fact that he’d been crying. He took a deep breath. “I have to. It would kill my mother if I didn’t show up. God knows I’ve done enough to hurt her.”

Mary felt a lump forming in her own throat. “We had better start packing, then. We can take the train to Pueblo. I suppose we’ll have to hire someone to drive us from there to the ranch. You do remember how to get there, don’t you?”

Jeremy smiled sadly. “I remember.” He thought of how he should go riding in on a horse, but then, there was no father to prove anything to anymore. He had never cared about horses and riding the way Zeke and Wolf’s Blood had, and he remembered his father being upset with him once or twice for being afraid of horses when he was little. By the time he was six or seven, Wolf’s Blood was riding as though he was a part of the horse, and riding bareback to boot.

Jeremy knew damn well Zeke Monroe loved him just as much as any of his children, but there had always been a wall between them, and he’d never been able to get close to the man like Wolf’s Blood had. At thirty-four
years of age it seemed silly to care anymore about Wolf’s Blood being the “favorite son,” but he couldn’t help it, even though Zeke would never have wanted any of the children to feel that way.

“It will take us four or five days to get there. The rest of them have probably already left.” He sighed, tossing his mother’s letter onto the desk. “I’ll have to finish up some loose ends at the office.” He stood up and rubbed at his eyes.

“I know this will be hard for you, Jeremy,” Mary told him, walking closer. She wished she could have known Zeke Monroe, imagined what a contrast he must have been to this son. The way Jeremy described his father, he could look as wild and mean as any painted warrior. To look at Jeremy, it was difficult to believe such a man could have been his father. Her husband was handsome, but in a gentler way, his eyes a soft blue, his hair medium brown, still thick and wavy. He was not “big and tall” in the way he’d described his father and his oldest brother, but he was a well-built man, just the right height as far as she was concerned, and the arms that held her in the night were strong. “You’ll be glad you did this,” she finished, placing her arms around his waist. Her heart ached at the lingering trace of tears in his eyes.

“You think so, do you?” Again came a rather bitter smile. “When you see Wolf’s Blood you’ll know what my father looked like. God only knows what he’ll do or say, what
any
of them will do or say.”

“They’re family, Jeremy. They won’t beat you and they won’t turn you away, and I highly doubt any of them truly hates you, not even Wolf’s Blood. If he was as close to your father as you say, then he’ll do what he knows his father would want done and will welcome you with open arms.”

He scowled. “Oh, my dear wife, you have not met
my wild-spirited brother. You’ll see. But thank you for your support. And thank you most of all for understanding my past and my feelings.” He kissed her forehead. He’d met Mary Foster at a dance held for high officials with the railroad; her banker father had been a big investor in the Denver & Rio Grande. She had a simple beauty, her sandy hair thick and lustrous, her eyes a gentle brown, her complexion flawless. She’d been somewhat self-conscious at the dance because she was taller than all the other unmarried young women, but to him that only made her more elegant. She was not a snob, even though her upbringing could have made her so; and it broke his heart that the one thing she wanted most was something money could not buy. She could not have children. They had considered adopting, but she’d wanted a child of her own.

“How should I dress?” she asked.

He shrugged, letting go of her. “However you want, but you don’t need anything fancy where we’re going. Take one of your riding outfits. Hell, you ride better than I do, and all my sisters ride. They’d probably like to go off with you for some good gossip. That’s what women like to do, isn’t it?” He laughed lightly. “You’ll like my sisters. And you will be shocked at how different we all look, from savage Indian to sweet LeeAnn with her blond hair and blue eyes.” He took his suit jacket from the back of his chair. “Say, maybe you can show Wolf’s Blood how you can ride, do some of that jumping you do at the riding club here in Denver. He’d be impressed with that.”

“You need a special horse for that, you know,” she answered, folding her arms authoritatively.

Jeremy pulled on his jacket. “Mary, believe me, whatever kind of horse you need, you’ll find it on the ranch. My father raised the most beautiful horses in Colorado; I’m sure Margaret and Morgan have kept up the family
tradition. And if I know Wolf’s Blood, he’ll be more than happy to show off some of his own trick riding. I’ve never met his children, but in this latest letter Mother sent me, she gave me a list of all the grandchildren. Wolf’s Blood has two by an Apache woman. The oldest is a boy named Hawk, and my bet is he’s as good on a horse as his father is. Wolf’s Blood wouldn’t have it any other way.” He straightened his lapels. “And Margaret named her oldest boy Zeke. Hawk is fourteen; Zeke is eighteen. He was just a little baby when I …” His smile faded. “When I left.” He walked over to a hat rack and put a silk tophat on his head. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”

Mary nodded. “I’m glad we’re going. I’m just sorry … sorry you don’t have children of your own to take along and brag about. Your mother is probably expecting to meet a few more grandchildren.”

He ached at seeing the pain in her eyes. “Mary, I am taking a wife who makes me very proud. I don’t need to present children to my mother as if they were trophies. She’ll understand. It just about broke her heart when she had to have an operation to keep her from having any more children. That was right here in Denver, after Jason was born. You’ll really like my mother, and I have no doubt whatsoever that she’ll like you. You’re a lot alike in strength and character.”

“I have a feeling that is a wonderful compliment.”

His eyes teared again. “If you knew my mother, you’d know it is. Abbie Monroe is … well, there’s no one like her. She’s a very special woman.” He walked to the door. “And no matter what kind of welcome I get, it will be quite an experience seeing the ranch again, being in that house.” He closed his eyes and turned away. “My God, the memories …” He walked out into the hallway. “I’ll be back in two or three hours. Go ahead and finish packing.”

Mary watched after him, thinking how good this was going to be for his soul. She wondered if his mother had somehow suspected he needed this.

Young Zeke Brown raced his sturdy Appaloosa gelding against Georgeanne Temple’s sleek roan mare, the animals neck and neck until Zeke’s horse finally inched ahead just before they reached the creek, which was their finish line.

“One more yard and I’d have had you!” Georgeanne yelled, pulling up her mount and patting its sweaty neck. “Poor Princess ran her heart out.”

She slid off the saddle, and Zeke did not miss the roundness of the hips that filled out her green velvet riding skirt. Georgeanne Temple was the prettiest girl in Colorado, as far as he was concerned. It was too bad she was Carson Temple’s daughter. Her father was doing what he could to make life miserable for his parents; how a man like that could produce such a sweet person, he couldn’t understand. He and Georgeanne had met two months ago, after she had returned home from a year of finishing school in New York, where she’d lived with her maternal grandmother. Georgeanne had been out riding, and Zeke had been rounding up stray horses. He would never forget that first meeting, the instant attraction he’d felt, the same attraction he’d seen in her own eyes.

Georgeanne walked up to him and held out her arms as he jumped down from his own horse. “You always have an excuse for losing,” he teased. He embraced her, loving the delicious feel of her full breasts against his own broad chest. Although his parents had instilled in him a sense of honor and humility, he was not unaware of his good looks, a mixture of one-quarter Negro, one-quarter Indian and the rest white, giving him
handsome dark eyes, high cheekbones, what Georgeanne called “perfect” lips and nearly black hair that hung in a cascade of careless waves just past his shirt collar. He couldn’t help being glad for his appearance and the tall, strong build he’d gotten from both his mulatto father and his half-Indian grandfather Zeke … glad because Georgeanne Temple thought he was “the finest-looking man west of the Mississippi. At eighteen, to be considered a man by someone as educated and well traveled as Georgeanne filled him with great pride.

She kissed his cheek. “I just let you win because it isn’t ladylike to beat a man in a horse race,” she told him. Georgeanne studied his handsome grin. She’d never met anyone like Zeke Brown, so sure and solid, a man who knew responsibility far beyond the young men she’d met back East. She could not help being attracted to him, and she didn’t care that he had Negro and Indian blood in his veins. He was magnificently strong yet gentle, a soft-spoken man who could take care of himself and knew what he wanted in life, yet didn’t brag and bluster his way through life like her father. Carson Temple seldom spoke without yelling, and he liked to make sure everyone understood how important he was.

She loved her father, but he was a man so full of himself that he seldom took the time to wonder or ask how anyone else felt about anything. As far as she was concerned, her father had killed her gentle, submissive mother with his constant orders and demands. In her growing-up years she remembered her mother always crying, remembered her father berating the woman for being “weak and stupid” … remembered a gunshot … whispers … a funeral … her mother gone. It was not until she was older that she understood about the suicide.

“Don’t let go of me, Zeke.”

Zeke studied the sincere love in her brown eyes, pulled her close again, kissing her hair, her eyes; meeting her mouth when she turned her face up to capture a kiss. He most certainly loved kissing her, and when she sometimes suddenly turned fearful and possessive like this, he found himself wanting to comfort her, hold her forever. He wanted to undo the tumble of curls into which her auburn hair was bound, wanted to get rid of the clothes that kept him from seeing and touching her naked skin, yearned to taste the fruits of her breasts, ached to be inside of her. He wanted to claim Georgeanne Temple as his own, but he had his family to think about … and the trouble he could bring upon them by loving this woman.

He hated this age of being in between, having all the feelings and needs of a man but unable to be a man in every way for her. This young woman lived in a stone mansion, on the estate that adjoined his parents’ property, land that had once belonged to an Englishman named Sir Edwin Tynes … a man from his grandma Abbie’s past, one who’d gone back to England many years ago. If only he had not sold his land to Carson Temple! And yet … if he hadn’t, Zeke would never have met Temple’s daughter.

He couldn’t resist the urge to have Georgeanne lie down in the grass, the manly need to move on top of her. He moved a hand to a full breast that lay fetchingly beneath a bolero jacket and white, ruffled blouse. Maybe today she’d let him open that blouse, unlace her camisole, reach inside and feel her breast, touch the nipple, taste it. Maybe today …

“Zeke, we can’t do this!” Georgeanne spoke the words between a barrage of hot, hungry kisses. “I want you so much but we know we can’t do this yet,” she whispered.

“Why not? Who will know?”

“We will! What if I got pregnant?”

Pregnant? She thought he wanted to go that far with her, which could only mean she was
willing
to go that far, if not for their unique situation. Manly desires fought wildly against an upbringing that had taught him responsibility. He had to think about his parents, what a man like Carson Temple could do to them if he knew about this, the rage the man would inflict on the Monroe/Brown ranch if Zeke Brown got his daughter pregnant. Temple hated Morgan Brown simply because he was part Negro, hated Margaret because she was part Indian and looked
all
Indian. He was a prejudiced, pompous bastard, and sometimes Zeke wanted to shoot him.