Reckless Heart (28 page)

Once she overcame her fear of him, Rebecca, too, was glad for his company. It was nice to have a man to do for. She found herself taking greater pains with her appearance, baking more often and singing as she worked. He did not behave at all as she had supposed an Indian would. He knew how to read and write, he spoke English better than some of her neighbors, and his table manners were impeccable. In fact, dressed in one of her husband’s shirts and a pair of pants, he looked pretty much like any other man, except for his long hair and coppery skin.

As she got to know him better, she realized he possessed many of the quantities she had admired in her late husband—virtues like honesty, pride, tenderness, and a strong sense of right and wrong.

For Two Hawks Flying, the days were peaceful and serene. Plenty of rest and Rebecca’s good cooking soon had him feeling better than ever, and he began to think about moving on. But then, late one night, Rebecca came to his room. She stood in the doorway, her cheeks flushed and desire shining in her eyes.

He knew what it had cost her, coming to his room. A woman’s pride was a fragile thing. She wanted him, and he could not refuse her. She had saved his life, and he had no other way to repay her kindness. She uttered a small sigh of joy and relief when he held out his arms…

The days that followed were the best Rebecca had ever known. All her inhibitions seemed to have vanished like smoke in a high wind, and every night she went eagerly to Shadow’s bed, finding in his arms a joy and fulfillment she had never known. Each day was better than the last, each night a time of blissful delight.

Only on Sundays, in church, did her conscience bother her. Out of his arms, in the harsh light of day, she was forced to admit she was living in sin with a heathen savage. She knew her neighbors would shun her if they knew, and yet, each Sunday night, she shut the door on her conscience and went once more to taste the forbidden fruit.

The days passed, growing longer and warmer. And Shadow grew increasingly more and more restless. Though he had the run of the house, he dared not go outside except late at night for fear of discovery. It was like being in prison again, he mused—a velvet prison this time, but a prison nonetheless.

His temper grew short; often he was silent and brooding. Rebecca was not unaware of his inner restlessness.

“You’re thinking of leaving, aren’t you?” she asked late one evening.

Two Hawks Flying continued to stare out the bedroom window, his back toward her. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I miss the plains,” he answered honestly. “I feel trapped within these walls.”

“Take us with you.”

With a sigh, he turned to face her. “I cannot,” he said quietly.

“There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“An Indian girl?”

“No. She is white, like you.”

“I hate her,” Rebecca cried petulantly.

“Do not waste your anger,” Two Hawks Flying chided gently. “She belongs to another.”

“Then why must you go? Why can’t you take us?”

“I am sorry,” he said sincerely, “but I cannot stay. And I cannot take you with me.”

“When are you going?”

“In a day or two. Unless you want me to go now?”

“I don’t want you to go at all,” Rebecca sobbed, and hurled herself into his arms. How would she live without him? He had become important to her. With him, she felt safe and protected. It would be unbearable, to be alone again after knowing the warmth of his arms.

Two Hawks Flying held her while she cried. He did not want to hurt her; in the last few weeks he had grown very fond of her. But it was Hannah who held his heart, Hannah who he yearned for even more than the sun-swept hills and valleys of home.

It still hurt, even after all this time, to think of her in another man’s arms. Hannah—soft, honeyed flesh, with a spirit sweet as life itself. If only he could forget her, but try as he might, she was ever in his thoughts.

With a strangled cry, he carried Rebecca to the bed they had shared, hoping to ease his desire for one woman in the caring arms of another. It was a futile hope, and he knew he would yearn for Hannah even in the After World.

When Rebecca woke the next morning, Two Hawks Flying was gone. Rising, she went to the window and stared into the distance, toward the west. The house seemed unusually quiet, empty without his virile presence.

“You might at least have said goodbye,” she murmured brokenly, and then the tears came.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Two Hawks Flying traveled stealthily across the night-shrouded countryside. In his white man’s garb and hat, he knew he could pass as a farmer, but only from a distance, and so he moved with caution. Afoot and unarmed, he would be no match for a mob of blood-hungry whites, and he had no desire to experience again the abuse he had once suffered at the hands of the men in Bear Valley.

He had gone about ten miles when he spied a farmhouse situated atop a small crest. The windows were dark. No smoke rose from the chimney, but still he watched the place for a full thirty minutes before he padded noiselessly up the hill toward the barn, stopping only once to pick up a large rock.

He was opening the barn door when a low growl sounded behind him. He turned in time to see a large white dog launch itself from the ground, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

With smooth precision, Two Hawks Flying twisted sideways so that his left shoulder took the brunt of the dog’s attack. His right arm was moving too, swinging high and then crashing down as he struck the dog’s skull, killing it instantly.

The interior of the barn was dark and smelled of horses and hay and manure. There were three horses housed in the building, two Clydesdale geldings and a chestnut Quarter Horse mare.

A search of the tack hanging on one wall produced a bridle for the chestnut. The mare snorted and backed away as Two Hawks Flying entered her stall. For a moment he stood unmoving, letting the animal get accustomed to his smell and the sound of his voice.

Then, talking gently, he patted the mare’s shoulder, gradually moving his hand up her neck to scratch her ears.

The mare rolled her eyes as he slipped the bridle over her head but followed docilely enough as he led her out of the stall.

“Easy, girl,” he murmured, and swung effortlessly aboard her back.

Once clear of the farm yard, he put the mare into a gallop. It was exhilarating to be astride a horse again, to be riding free across open ground. The wind was cold against his face, but it was a good feeling and he threw back his head and laughed aloud. He was free! Free at last!

He rode until dawn, then took shelter in a sandy wash until nightfall. Two nights later, he raided a store in a small town, helping himself to a rifle, ammunition, and a sack of beef jerky.

In the weeks that followed, he rode at night and holed up during the day until he was well away from civilization, and then he rode hard day and night, resting only when the chestnut mare needed time to rest or graze.

A deep need for vengeance against Joshua Berdeen burned hot in his blood, and he knew he would never be content until Berdeen was dead. He felt a twinge of guilt because Berdeen was Hannah’s husband, but that fact would not save Berdeen. Two Hawks Flying had suffered much because of the white man’s treachery, and the proud warrior blood in his veins cried out for vengeance.

In the land of the Comanche, he traded his weary chestnut mare for a spotted stallion. He was well treated in the Comanche lodges, and he stayed with them for three days, eating and sleeping. He threw away his white man’s clothes and again donned clout and moccasins.

The morning of the fourth day, he bid the Comanche farewell and headed west, through the arid plains of Texas and New Mexico.

Three weeks later he reached the Arizona border.

Chapter Twenty-Three

My baby was a boy. Healthy and strong, he entered the world October 29th, red-faced and howling at the top of his lungs, sounding for all the world like an enraged Indian on the warpath. I wept tears of joy and happiness as Doctor Mitchell laid him in my eager arms. Oh, but he was beautiful, from the top of his black-thatched head right down to the tips of his pudgy little feet.

Doctor Mitchell looked grave as he washed his hands in the basin beside my bed. “You’ll never pass that child off as white,” he remarked. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Why should I want to?” I replied. “I’m not ashamed of him.”

“Josh will be,” the good doctor stated flatly, and his face was lined with worry as he closed his bag and slipped into his coat. “Do you want me to tell him?”

“Would you, Ed?”

“Sure, honey. Call me if you need me,” he said succinctly. “For any reason. Any time.” And with a last glance at my son, he left the room.

His words had taken the edge from my happiness. No one knew better than I how angry Josh was going to be when he discovered he was not the baby’s father. But there was nothing he could do about it, and after the first explosive burst of fury, he would just have to accept the baby. Josh and I could always have another child—several, if he so desired, though I knew this child, fathered by the man I loved, would always hold a special place in my heart.

Childbirth was hard work and I was on the brink of sleep when I heard Josh’s footsteps in the hall. Instinctively, I held my son closer. Josh crossed the room in long strides, and his blue eyes were like pools of glacier ice as he glared down at us.

“So you slept with that red nigger when he was in the hole!” Joshua flung at me. “You dirty little tramp. Rutting in the dirt like a damn squaw!”

I flinched before the disgust in his frosty gaze, but my chin came up and my voice was strong and clear as I said, “Yes, Josh, just like a damn squaw.”

Eyes blazing, my husband leaned over me until his face was only inches from my own. “Let me tell you something, Hannah Berdeen. You’re not a squaw anymore. You’re my wife. And I don’t intend to have any little half-breed bastard running around clinging to your skirts.”

“Joshua…”

“Shut up, you slut! I sent Hopkins out to the Apache reservation to find a squaw to look after your brat, and as soon as he gets back, the kid goes. We’ll say it died. I’ve already discussed it with Mitchell.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“But I am,” Josh replied coldly.

For a moment I could only stare at him, unable to believe my ears. Unable to believe I had once cared for him, that once, long ago, I had fancied myself in love with him.

“Joshua, please don’t do this,” I begged, “Please! I can’t bear to lose another child.”

“Stop whining!” he snapped. “You think I want my men whispering behind my back about you and that redskin? You think I want people to know you slept with him right up to the day you married me?”

“Josh, please let me keep the baby. I’ll be ever so grateful.”

Joshua’s eyes pierced mine like daggers. “Shut up, Hannah, or I’ll take the bastard out and drown it!”

He wasn’t bluffing and we both knew it, just as I knew that nothing I could say would change his mind.

Choking back my tears, I asked, “How soon will Hopkins be back?”

“Tomorrow morning, early,” Josh said, going to the door. “And don’t worry, I’ll see to it that you have another child. One whose skin is the right color.”

I stared at the ceiling long after Josh was gone, hearing his voice over and over again as he promised to give me a child who was the “right color”. I thought of my son growing up on the Apache reservation, raised by strangers, and I went cold all over, as if my blood had suddenly turned to ice. The baby stirred in my arms. My baby. Mine and Shadow’s. I couldn’t let him be raised on the reservation. Shadow’s son should grow up where men were free, where warriors lived and died in the old way. I wanted Shadow’s son to know the thrill of chasing down his first buffalo, wanted him to see the prairie in bloom when all the world was green and new, wanted him to experience the wondrous quiet of a midsummer night in the high country.

I had seen San Carlos, the Apache reservation, and been appalled at the poverty in which the Indians lived. Warriors, once proud and free as the wind, sat idly before their lodges day after day, their eyes empty of hope and their spirits broken. The women, even the young ones, looked old and tired. Many of them sold themselves to the soldiers in exchange for food to feed their families. And the children…hollow-eyed, gaunt, listless. Their once bright black eyes were dull, their merry laughter stilled. They did not sing, or play, or laugh. No, I could not send Shadow’s child to the living hell of life on the reservation.

“I’ll think of something,” I promised as I kissed my son’s downy cheek. “Don’t worry…”

It was late when I awoke. Tired as I was, there was no time to waste. Dragging myself out of bed, I dressed quickly, threw some food into a sack, and grabbed a canteen from Joshua’s field kit. Bundling my son in a heavy blanket, I tiptoed out of the house.

Sunny nickered softly as I led her from the corral, hurriedly slipping a bridle over her head. It was a struggle to swing the heavy saddle in place. That accomplished, I made my way to the gates. There were two sentries patrolling the catwalk, and I was pleased to see they were both standing at the far end, talking quietly as they shared a cigarette. Moving swiftly, I wrestled the heavy bar from the big gate, opening it just enough to allow the horse and myself to pass through. Then, with my son cradled in my right arm and Sunny’s reins held tight in my left hand, I disappeared into the shadows. Well away from sight and sound of the fort, I hauled myself into the saddle and lashed Sunny into a gallop.

The wind was cold and damp, and I turned up the collar of my coat, drawing the blanket tighter around my son. In the distance, a coyote raised a lonely lament to the moon. There was menace in the darkness, but the unseen creatures lurking there were not half so frightening as the thought of losing the baby I held in my arms, and I whipped Sunny’s flank, demanding more speed.

With the stars to guide me, I headed for the Dakotas. The things I wanted for my son no longer existed. Not here, in Arizona. Not anywhere. The great herds of buffalo were gone. The old days were gone. And if my son was destined to live out his life on a reservation, then so would I. But it would be the Cheyenne reservation, where he could learn the ways of his people.

His people. I thought of Fawn and New Leaf and Black Owl, and a weight seemed to lift from my heart. If they were still alive, I would not be alone. Shadow’s father would welcome his son’s wife and child. We would be loved and cared for. Black Owl would teach his grandson the things a warrior should know. My son would grow up listening to the old men tell stories of Dull Knife and Black Kettle, of White Antelope and Two Moons. He would hear stories of the great chiefs and thrill to the heroic tales of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, of Gall and Hump. He would hear the warriors boast of Two Hawks Flying, the last fighting chief on the plains.

Shadow. Despite the weariness that weighed me down, I suddenly felt much better. I knew Shadow would never live on a reservation under the white man’s thumb, but perhaps Black Owl would know where he was.

Joshua swore softly as he saw the rumpled bed and Hannah’s nightgown on the floor. So she had taken the brat and run away. Damn her! He’d be the laughingstock of the fort now. And damn that Indian, too—even dead and buried, he still held Hannah tight in his grasp.

Jealousy burned in Joshua’s heart. It seemed he had loved Hannah all his life. He still loved her, but she couldn’t see him for dust. He wanted to be nice to her, to spoil and pamper her, but every time he looked into her eyes, he knew she still loved the Indian. Would always love the Indian. No matter what he, Joshua, did, he knew she was comparing him to Shadow and finding him wanting.

Indians! How he hated them. They had been the cause of all the unhappiness he had ever known. He had happily killed dozens, perhaps even hundreds, since joining the Army. Once, he had thought that the shedding of Indian blood would somehow atone for the loss of Hannah’s love and for the deaths of his parents and his brother. And it had helped a little, but killing had not cooled the hatred in his heart. No, if anything, his hatred for the whole red race burned brighter and hotter than ever.

Shoulders sagging, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the nightgown lying in a heap on the floor. The gown was soft and feminine, like Hannah herself. She was so beautiful, so desirable. Yet even in the privacy of their marriage bed, he knew she was comparing him to Shadow and finding him a poor second. If only he could wipe the Indian’s memory from her mind once and for all. If only he could win Hannah’s love. There had to be a way.

Muttering an oath, Joshua stomped out of the bedroom and made his way to the parlor. Pouring himself a tall glass of rye whiskey, he downed it in two swallows. He would not let Hannah go without a fight. No, by damn, he would not!

In the morning, he would find her trail and bring her back.