Wolf Runner (7 page)

Cheyenne glanced out the window, relieved that the rain had finally stopped and a weak sun poked through scattered clouds.

Grabbing up her still-damp shawl, she left the house and made her way to Señor Mendoza’s blacksmith shop. It was impossible to miss all the mud puddles as she stepped onto the street, her shoes already wet and muddy.

Why hadn’t she worn her leather boots? She chided herself, wading through a puddle that seeped through her thin-soled shoes.

When she approached the blacksmith shop she heard the clanging of a hammer striking an anvil and was comforted by the familiar sound. When Señor Mendoza saw her, he wiped sweat from his brow and gave her his full attention.

“How are you today,
pequeña
?” His soft eyes were filled with sympathy.

Señor Mendoza had called her his “little one” since she was a child, and she was comforted by the familiar endearment. “I’m making out. Thank you for asking.”

“Margareta said if I saw you today I was to invite you to supper, señorita. You should not be alone at a time like this.”

She smiled at the man she admired above all others. His dark hair was dusted with gray, and his brown eyes radiated warmth. His arms were muscled from the heavy smithy work he did, but he was a gentle man, who loved his family, and he had always included her in that number.

“I have so much to do, I haven’t thought about eating,” she admitted. “I need to be moved out of the house as soon as possible. I found out yesterday that Mr. Sullivan holds the mortgage. Do you think you could store a few of Gram’s belongings in your loft until I can decide what to do with them?”

He stilled. “Of course, but why must you leave?”

She lowered her head. “It’s Mr. Sullivan. He has always made me uncomfortable, but when he came by the house last night…I really can’t explain why, but I was frightened.”

The blacksmith’s jaw tightened. “Just say when you want your things moved and I will bring a wagon and my sons to help. Meantime, you must stay with us.”

Cheyenne shook her head, knowing he was worried about her, and she didn’t want that. “I need to stay in the house until I pack away Gram’s belongings. Everything should be ready day after tomorrow. Can you come late in the afternoon?”

“I will be there,” he told her with feeling. “How are you fixed for money, Señorita Cheyenne?”

“I have enough to get me by until I find work.”

He continued to look at her worriedly, and she was sure he did not believe her.

“I wonder if you would accept the chickens and the milk cow?” she asked hurriedly, hoping to take his mind off her money situation.

He nodded, feeling her heartbreak. “I can take them and even pay you a little for them.”

“No. I don’t want money from you. I just want you to have them.”

He lowered his head, feeling ashamed that he could give Cheyenne so little in her time of need. He had nothing to offer.

“Señor Mendoza, I believe Gram would have liked Señora Mendoza to have her furniture. I have no use for it anymore. But I could not bear to get rid of Gram’s personal belongings. They are what I would like you to store for me.”

“It is too much,” he said, shaking his head. “I cannot pay you what the furniture is worth.”

“I could never sell Gram’s furniture. They are a gift to your family, for all your kindnesses.”

“Kindness is not for sale,
pequeña
.”

“No, it isn’t. I wouldn’t even try. It would mean so much for me to know your family is using Gram’s furniture. I couldn’t bear for anyone else to have the breakfront that has been in our family for generations. It was Gram’s pride and joy.”

He watched her for a moment and saw tears swimming in her eyes. “I know Margareta will take care of it for you, and for the rest, I thank you.”

She smiled. “You will never know how much your family means to me.”

He picked up his bellows and started fanning the flame in the forge, too choked up to speak at first. When the fire leaped high, he turned back to her. “Señorita Cheyenne, remember, you will always have a home with us.”

“Thank you. I may spend a night or two with you, but I have to make my own way, Señor Mendoza.”

He had known her since childhood and he knew about her pride. “The offer is there for you if you should ever change your mind.”

She reached up and kissed his rough cheek. “Thank you.”

He watched Cheyenne turn and walk away—she was such a lonely figure that it tugged at his heart. The “good” people of this town treated her no better than the dust beneath their feet. She was a sweet young girl, and she had so many troubles. He wanted to help her, but she would not accept his help. The pride of the young was often their undoing, he thought sorrowfully.

The sun had poked through the clouds again and it had stopped raining. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor surrounded by wooden crates and crumpled paper, Cheyenne lovingly wrapped each item before carefully placing it inside the crate. It was heartbreaking enough to pack up her gram’s meager belongings without the day being dark and gloomy.

Time was of the essence. She had to be out of this house before Mr. Sullivan returned. And she wanted to have everything ready by the time Señor Mendoza came by with his wagon.

Cheyenne found a packet of old letters wrapped in blue ribbon and she smiled—they were to Gram from her grandfather. She would not read them now, but she could not throw them away. They would be packed with the other things she was keeping and stored in Señor Mendoza’s loft.

She lifted a faded tintype of her father and tears spilled down her cheeks. The world was a lonely place without family, without a home, without anyone who really cared about her.

Frowning, Cheyenne saw something tucked behind the frame—an envelope. She carefully slid it out and
stared at it for a long moment. It was from Indian Territory, from a Mr. Samuel Dickens.

“Hmm,” she said aloud, wondering whom the letter was from, and why her gram had hidden it away.

Removing the letter from the envelope she held it to the lamp and began to read:

Dear Mrs. Gatlin,

Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Indian agent for the Cheyenne tribe in Indian Territory. Chief Bold Eagle has asked me to make inquiries about his daughter’s child, whom he has reason to believe is your granddaughter. He is most anxious to hear about the child and would appreciate any words of comfort you can offer him about his deceased daughter’s child.

Sincerely,
Mr. Samuel Dickens

P.S. Since writing the above the Cheyenne people have been relocated to Montana. If you will write to me, I will make certain the letter reaches Chief Bold Eagle.

I have told him that it is unlikely he will ever find the child. But this does not dampen his spirits. If he cannot see her, he would like to know if she is thriving. If you can help set his mind at ease, you will have his gratitude, as well as mine.

Cheyenne held the letter to her breast as fresh tears washed down her cheeks.

She had family, a grandfather!

And he wanted to see her.

Of course, the letter was dated three years earlier. Bold Eagle might be dead by now.

Why had her grandmother never mentioned to her that she had family looking for her?

Had Gram ever answered the letter?

Cheyenne did not think so.

If anything, Gram would have gone to great lengths to keep her granddaughter away from the Cheyenne tribe.

Someone knocked on the door and Cheyenne’s head jerked up. She wiped her tears on her apron before she went to answer it. Maria was still sick with a fever, so it would not be her, and Señor Mendoza was not coming with the wagon for a couple of days.

When she opened the door shock registered in her mind—she had never spoken to the woman who stood on the doorstep staring back at her, but she recognized Mrs. Sullivan. She wondered if the woman had come to ask her to vacate her husband’s property.

“Would you like to come in?” Cheyenne asked, stepping aside.

“Indeed I do,” the woman ground out. “I certainly want to talk to you.”

Nancy Sullivan was a small-boned woman with thin, light brown hair. She was pretty despite the dark circles underneath her eyes. Her blue-and-white gingham gown was made of the finest quality material and not store-bought, but probably ordered from some fancy dress shop back East.

“If you like coffee, I could make some,” Cheyenne offered.

Looking about the cluttered room Nancy Sullivan’s thin lips curled in distaste. “No. I don’t want any.”

Quickly removing a stack of books from a chair and placing them on the floor, Cheyenne said, “Please forgive the mess. As you see, I’m packing. If you have come to inquire when I will be leaving, I will have most of the things out in two days.”

Nancy Sullivan glared at the young woman, casting her a smug glance. “I have not come to ask you to vacate the house. I came with a warning.”

Mr. Sullivan’s wife was plainly angry and Cheyenne could not understand why. “A warning?”

“Yes, my girl. I’m warning you to stay away from my husband. Don’t deny you are after him, ’cause I know you are.”

Feeling her face pale, Cheyenne stared at her uninvited guest as if she had lost her mind. “I do deny it! I don’t want anything to do with your husband. Why would I?”

“Of course you’d say that to throw me off track.” The woman gave Cheyenne a wintery smile. “Do you deny he was with you the very night your grandmother was buried?” the woman asked, glaring at Cheyenne. “He was seen coming in here.”

“He came to tell me he owned this house and to offer me a job. He said you would approve—I didn’t believe him.”

Mrs. Sullivan’s face reddened. “And I suppose he offered you a room at the End of Trail.”

“He did. But I can assure you, Mrs. Sullivan, I have no intentions of moving to your hotel or working for your husband.” She gave a sweep of her hand. “As you can see, I am packing to move out of this house.”

Nancy Sullivan stood and began pacing the room, which was no easy task since she had to weave her steps around wooden crates that littered her way. “I can always tell when my husband forms a new attachment for some woman.” Her lip curled in distaste. “But you,” she said with disgust. “A half-breed Indian, it sickens me that Nigel would take up with the likes of you.”

Cheyenne felt the woman’s harsh words like a physical blow. “I’m not responsible for your husband’s actions. Mr. Sullivan is the last man I would allow to touch me,” she said, going to the door and holding it open wide. “Just go and leave me alone.”

“My girl, you can’t order me out of a house my husband owns. But I am prepared to help you leave town.”

“I wouldn’t accept help from you.”

Opening her drawstring reticule, Mrs. Sullivan pursed her lips and removed a wad of bills and thrust them at Cheyenne. “There is enough here for you to take a train out of Santa Fe and to even keep you in food and lodging until you can find work.” She nodded at Cheyenne. “Take it!”

“I pity you. Do you have enough money to buy off every woman your husband looks at?”

“How dare you…you half-breed.”

“You have insulted me in every way possible, and my pity grows thin. I just want you to leave.”

“Don’t try to play innocent with me. I’ve seen you sashaying about town, drawing all the men’s interest. You aren’t fit to live around decent people.”

Trying to keep a tight rein on her temper, Cheyenne took a deep breath. “You don’t know me well enough to make any kind of assumption. Your husband is the one who should not be allowed to be around decent young women. He has but one thing on his mind—the ruination of any woman who falls into his hands. You can tell him that for me.”

The woman looked doubtful for a moment and then she shook her head, cramming her money back into her reticule. She had met Nigel’s women before and they all claimed to be innocent, but they had all taken her money. “If you think my husband will give
you more than I offered, in that you are mistaken. I control the money, not him.”

Angry and hurt to the heart, Cheyenne felt her lips quiver. “I would not touch your money. I’ll be leaving soon, and you and your husband will never see me again.”

The woman’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “When? And where will you go?”

“When I leave and where I go is no concern of yours. I’m going to ask you this one last time to get out!”

Sweeping to the door, the short woman’s head came only to the tip of Cheyenne’s nose. “I don’t have to take such talk from a dirty half-breed. If you aren’t gone by the end of the week, I’ll have the sheriff throw you out.”

“I will be gone, but not because of your threats.”

“I don’t care what the reason is. Leave Santa Fe or you will regret it, my girl.”

Feeling tears gathering behind her eyes, Cheyenne was determined this woman would not see her cry. She gave Nancy Sullivan a wide berth so she could move out of the house.

She flinched when Mrs. Sullivan slammed the door so hard the windows rattled. For a long moment Cheyenne stood in shocked silence and could no longer stop the tears from coursing down her cheeks. Whatever she decided to do about her future, she must do it quickly.

Listening to the mantel clock ticking away the seconds of her life, Cheyenne knew what she must do, but she was afraid to take that first step into an unknown future.

A storm struck at midnight with lightning and thunder shattering her sleep. She sat up in bed, her heart pounding with fear. She heard a banging and
thought someone was trying to break in before she realized the noise was a broken shutter slamming against the house. Grabbing her shawl, she rushed outside and fumbled with the shutter until she finally latched it.

Cheyenne was drenched by the time she got back inside, and when she changed into a dry nightgown, she was still shivering. It was doubtful she would be able to sleep for the rest of the night. And she heard every sound—the creaking of the house, and the occasional barking of a dog.

Her eyes grew heavy, but she could not sleep for thinking of what Mrs. Sullivan had said to her, and for fear Mr. Sullivan would break down the door to get to her.