Wolf Runner (4 page)

“Do you suppose he works for Cullen Worthington?”

Grinning as the three men rode out of sight, Ivy shook her head. “If I’m right about who he is, it would be Cullen who works for him.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I wonder if Marianna told him—”

“Who, Gram?”

Ivy shook her head. “Never mind, child. Don’t bother your head about it.”

Cheyenne was puzzled by her grandmother’s interest in the well-dressed half-breed. “Do you know his name?”

“Nope.”

“I wonder what he’s doing in Santa Fe.”

“Family business, I suspect.”

“What kind of business would bring him here?”

“Who can say?”

Cheyenne knew her gram was deliberately being vague, and she would get no more answers from her on the matter. She was still thinking about the beautiful half-breed as they approached their small house. Who was he, and why had her gram showed so much interest in him?

There was supper to cook and coffee to grind for the morning breakfast, and a garden to tend.

Soon the handsome stranger was forgotten and Cheyenne’s mind moved on to other matters.

But as night fell, and she climbed into her bed, the image of the handsome stranger stayed with her until she fell asleep.

It was the hour just before sunrise and the sky was tented with a soft rosy glow as Cheyenne Gatlin stepped out the back door and hurried toward the well to draw water. The day would be a scorcher because it was already hot. Pushing a damp tress of hair behind her ears, she dropped a wooden bucket into the well, watching it descend and hit the water with a splash.

A frown curved her lips. Her gram’s health seemed to be worsening with each passing day. Yesterday Gram had not even risen from her bed, and today when Cheyenne had pressed her to eat, she had only taken a few bites of buttered bread. Desperate with worry, Cheyenne knew something was dreadfully wrong.

Against her gram’s wishes, Cheyenne had gone for Dr. Taylor yesterday afternoon. The doctor had not been encouraging when he informed her that Ivy was suffering from a malady of the heart and that she was not likely to get any better.

Ivy Gatlin had stubbornly admonished Dr. Taylor, telling him she was merely tired and that he wasn’t to make up some illness to pin on her.

Gram had always been a bundle of energy, either tending her garden or working about the house: canning fruits and vegetables, or baking pies and cakes
to sell to Glass General Mercantile. Until lately, her hands had never been idle.

Cheyenne could not remember her mother, who had died when she had been an infant. Gram had said her mother had been crushed by a runaway wagon. Cheyenne had only been two years old when her father, a deputy sheriff, had attempted to break up a barroom brawl and had been severely wounded and died that very night.

Gram never liked to talk about Cheyenne’s parents. She had once said her son, Grant, had met Whispering Wind when he had transported a prisoner to Fort Leavenworth. Whispering Wind had been attending school near the fort, and they met and fell in love, marrying before Grant returned to Santa Fe.

Gram had sadly admitted that she had never accepted the marriage. Was it because her mother was an Indian? Cheyenne assumed that was the reason, but had never asked, and Gram never said.

Gram was the only family Cheyenne had left, and she was desperately afraid of losing her too.

There were no living relatives on the Gatlin side of her family except an elderly great-uncle who lived in Kansas, and Gram had nothing to do with him because she said he was a cantankerous old fool.

If Cheyenne had any relatives left with her mother’s side of the family she had no knowledge of them. Once she had inquired at the library, and had been told by the librarian, Mrs. Burns, that the Cheyenne tribe had been scattered to the four winds since the battle of the Little Bighorn and there was no way to trace them.

Cheyenne faced reality; being raised in the white world, she was certain the Indians would not accept her as one of their own, any more than the white people of Santa Fe did. She did not seem to belong
to either race. Although she tried not to care how she was treated, it did hurt.

If Gram died, she would be left with no one.

Cranking the lever suspended above the brick well, she watched the bucket rise to the top with jerky motions. At times like this she wished she had someone to talk to—someone to advise her, other than Gram. Her only friend was Maria Mendoza, the daughter of the local blacksmith.

She smiled, thinking of the Mendoza family, whose house was always in chaos. With so many children there was hardly room to move around in the small space, but there was a warmth there that enveloped her every time she visited.

With a heavy sigh, she grasped the bucket and poured water into a clay jug. Pausing a moment, she observed Gram’s three-room adobe house. It was located at the very edge of town, the last house on a dusty street. Gram liked to say it was within a good stiff walk of Santa Fe’s town square. It was not a fancy house, but the walls were thick, and it kept them warm in the winter and cool in the summer months. Gram’s garden was doing well because Cheyenne now kept it hoed and watered since Gram had become so ill. There were rows of corn and melons, and the tomato bushes were loaded. Some of the red peppers had already ripened, and she had hung them to dry.

The front of the house was beautiful because Gram had planted so many different varieties of flowers that the yard was awash with every color in the rainbow. This was the only home Cheyenne had ever known, and she loved it. Her earliest memories were of her loving grandmother taking care of her. Now Gram was ill and Cheyenne did not know what the future held for either of them.

About to enter the house, Cheyenne paused in the doorway when she heard a man call out to her.

“Good morning, Miss Gatlin.”

Cheyenne’s first emotion was annoyance. Her visitor was Mr. Nigel Sullivan, the owner of the End of Trail Hotel. Something about him always made Cheyenne feel uneasy, although she could not have said what it was. Lately, it seemed everywhere she went she would run into him. Cheyenne would not venture to say he followed her, but he did seem to dog her steps.

Mr. Sullivan was always friendly and never disrespected her. Why then, she wondered, did she want to shudder when he looked at her?

Nevertheless, she had to be courteous. “It is going to be a hot day,” she said as she placed her jug of water on the doorstep and moved to the low adobe wall that served as a fence.

He smiled at her. “That it is, Miss Gatlin.”

Nigel was not a tall man, but his shoulders were wide and he was good-looking, with brown hair and a thin mustache.

“If you came to see Gram, she is not feeling well enough for a visitor today.”

Nigel’s gray gaze swept up Cheyenne’s body, pausing at her breasts, and lingering there long enough to make Cheyenne uncomfortable. There was something in his eyes, an expression that disturbed her.

The last thing Nigel wanted to do was tangle with Cheyenne’s grandmother. Ivy Gatlin kept a close watch on the young woman and was fiercely protective of her. Ivy certainly kept all other men away from Cheyenne, and that was just the way Nigel wanted it. She was his—or she would be very soon—he was determined
on that. It had been a long time since any woman had stirred his blood the way Cheyenne Gat-lin did.

“In all truth, I came to speak to you, Miss Gatlin.”

She stepped back a few paces and braced her hand against the rough trunk of a piñon tree, feeling a prickle of unease that soon turned into alarm because he was staring at her in the strangest way. She chided herself for distrusting him. After all, he had a wife and three children, and was well respected in Santa Fe. “What do you want to speak to me about?”

Nigel dragged his gaze from the sight of her firm, young breasts, and concentrated on her face. He had been watching her for some time, and that lovely face appeared in his mind when he was making love to his wife or some whore he frequented. By now the sunlight washed across the land and painted Cheyenne’s skin the color of wild honey—her eyes, which sometimes appeared to be brown, had turned to a pure amber color in the sunlight. Her full lips were shaped for a man’s kiss, and he was certain no man had ever had that pleasure. She was an innocent, and that thought fired his blood even more. It was not just that she was beautiful, or that her soft, curved body made him crazed with lust—he wanted her all to himself—if he did not have her soon, he would never sate the ache that tormented him day and night.

Becoming uncomfortable because he was staring at her with the most peculiar expression, Cheyenne spoke, “Mr. Sullivan?”

Nigel came out of his trance and took a deep breath. “I wanted to let you know I’m aware that you and your grandmother are having a difficult time and I want to help in any way I can.”

Pride ran deep in Cheyenne’s veins and she raised
her chin, meeting his glittering gaze. “Thank you for your concern, sir, but Gram and I are just fine,” she avowed. “We don’t need anyone’s help.”

Before she could say more he held up his hand to silence her. “Let me finish. My regular woman who cleans the rooms at my hotel has quit, and I wondered if you would like to have her job.”

Cheyenne was stunned by his offer. They needed money desperately, but she did not want to work for him. “I hardly know what to say. I would have to talk it over with Gram. I can already tell you her answer will be no,” she declared.

He nodded, knowing the old lady would most certainly object to her granddaughter working for him. But if he had Cheyenne under his roof, she would be his to take. “I suppose you will have to get her permission. But be strong in your resolve to be independent—know what you want and go after it. Your grandmother has probably forgotten what it’s like to be young and to have money to buy pretty trinkets.” His eyes darkened. “I’d be very generous to you.”

She did not comprehend his meaning. “If you will excuse me, it is time for Gram’s tea.”

He dipped his head. “Why don’t you come by the hotel tomorrow and I’ll show you around.”

Again she said, “I’ll ask Gram.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t tell her. You know how guarded she is where you are concerned.”

Cheyenne moved farther away from him, troubled by his boldness. “I never keep secrets from Gram.” Knowing Mr. Sullivan was still watching her, Cheyenne turned away, refusing to look back at him.

When she reached the back door she lifted the water jug and entered the house, placing the wooden bar securely into place.

Cheyenne poured water into a kettle and placed it to boil on the back of the stove. The kitchen was a cheery sight with yellow curtains at the window and the green-and-white dishes displayed in a glass breakfront that Gram said had been in her family for generations.

Pouring water into a dishpan, Cheyenne placed the breakfast dishes to soak while she went back outside to gather eggs. Later she would milk the cow.

Once her outside chores were done, she made Gram’s tea and placed it on a tray with a slice of buttered bread. Gram was seated in her favorite rocking chair by the window that faced the front of the house. Cheyenne smiled as she watched her grandmother reach into a basket, pull out a tangle of white yarn, and roll it into a ball.

Cheyenne placed the tray on a small table, handing the teacup to her grandmother. “Do you feel well enough to be out of bed?”

Ivy took the tea, grumbling to herself, and then said out loud, “If you are brittle you will break.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Cheyenne said, looking puzzled.

Ivy fixed her faded gaze on her granddaughter and took a sip of tea before answering. “What I mean is hard times are coming and I won’t always be here to hold you up. If you are strong, you will bend in the wind and life will not defeat you.”

Cheyenne was hit with a renewed fear of loss. “Gram, you will always be with me.” She had to change the subject or the tears behind her eyes would fall, and that would distress Gram. “Would you like to go back to bed and rest?”

“No,” she said, placing her teacup back on the tray and picking up her yarn. “I feel just as well sitting
here as I would in bed, child. I need to be doing something, and knitting takes my mind off my ills.”

“Gram, please let me go for the doctor again today. You still look sick to me.”

“Nonsense. That old fool hasn’t got a lick of sense. Why should we throw away what little money we have on his opinion?” Ivy looked over the top of her bifocals. She refused to tell Cheyenne that the doctor had informed her in private that nothing could be done for her condition and her heart could give out at any time.

Ivy had no fear of death, but she did fear leaving her granddaughter without protection. Something had to be done as soon as possible.

Cheyenne lowered herself onto a stool and took her grandmother’s frail hand in hers. Even though the day was hot, Gram’s fingers were cold. “Drink more of your tea, and try to eat a little of the bread. I will make your favorite corn soup for dinner.”

“The tea is all I want for now. I can’t seem to get warm these days. But the tea always helps.”

“Gram,” Cheyenne began, “Mr. Sullivan stopped by this morning. He offered me a job at his hotel.”

Just the mention of that man’s name made Ivy’s temper flare and her frail body shake with anger. Her eyes snapped with a fierce expression as she shook her head. Forcefully casting her yarn back in the basket, it took a moment for her to catch her breath so she could speak. “You will not go anywhere near that man! Any young woman who gets tangled up with him soon loses her virtue. I’ve seen him watching you—don’t think I haven’t. Keep your distance from him.”

Cheyenne was shocked by Gram’s anger as much as she was about Gram’s assessment of Mr. Sullivan’s
character. “If I worked for him, I would stay out of his way.”

“You couldn’t. He would be everywhere you were.” Ivy hung her head for a moment. When her son had married Cheyenne’s mother, Ivy had not wanted anything to do with her because she was an Indian. But when Whispering Wind died, it took only a short time to love the motherless child. Cheyenne had given Ivy’s life purpose and a reason to go on after her son, Grant, died.

The problem was that Cheyenne was too beautiful and her body too seductive, so that men often watched her with longing in their eyes and lust in their hearts that they would have tried to conceal had she not been half Indian. The women had noticed how their husbands reacted to Cheyenne, and that gave them more reason to treat her with disdain.

And that made Ivy’s blood boil.

Cheyenne had her father’s gift for laughter, and she had always been happy—until lately. Ivy knew Cheyenne was worried about her, but not nearly as worried as Ivy was about her granddaughter’s future.

The people in Santa Fe had never bothered to look into Cheyenne’s heart and see the goodness there. Cheyenne had never been invited to dances or socials like the other young women in town, and Ivy knew she was lonely. Ivy wanted to weep for Cheyenne’s situation, but what good would that do?

Closing her eyes, Ivy remembered the day she had discovered Nigel Sullivan had bought the mortgage on her house from the bank. Even then she knew he had something in mind for Cheyenne. Today he had shown his hand, and she saw how he was further trying to wheedle his way into her granddaughter’s life.