Meet the New Dawn (45 page)

But then her throat tightened. Why did it matter? Who cared now? She suddenly realized that she was still taking care of herself for a man who was not even alive anymore. She still dressed for Zeke Monroe. He had been gone for six years, yet she still wondered how he would think of the way she looked. She had been gone from the ranch for a long time now, and it had been closer to seven years since last she lay in her husband’s arms. Yet she cared what he would think of how
she looked.

Dan was at the door then. Abbie and Jason lived in a small cabin near Dan’s house, where he lived with Jennifer and his granddaughter. She swallowed her sorrow and greeted Dan, putting on a shawl and leaving with him, feeling suddenly lonely again.

The dance was the most fun Abbie had had in a long time. It was the first time in seven years she had danced at all or worn an extra pretty dress—not since that lovely week she and Zeke had spent in Pueblo. How could it have been so long ago?

The evening went by almost too quickly. She could tell as Dan walked her back to her cabin that he wanted to talk to her about something. She had suspected for a long time that perhaps he thought he loved her, and she supposed she had tiny womanly feelings toward him. But it was only out of loneliness, and he still seemed more a friend than anything else. She knew he was feeling the same way. It seemed logical they should end up together. And yet somehow it could not be the deep love husbands and wives should share—the kind filled with desire and passion. But then at their ages perhaps desire and passion were no longer necessary ingredients to a marriage. Abbie had known so much of it with Zeke that it was difficult to think of marrying a man that she did not have physical feelings for.

Dan left her at the door with a kiss on the forehead, leaving things still unsaid. Abbie watched him disappear into the darkness, and turned to open the door. It was then she heard someone call her name softly.

She hesitated, her heart pounding. The voice sounded familiar, but she could not quite place it.

“Do not be afraid,” she heard then—a man’s voice. “Do not run away.”

She frowned, looking at the corner of the cabin from where the voice had come. There was a bright moon, and a lantern hung from the porch overhang. A man emerged from the side of the house, his hair long, his movements making no sound at all, for he wore soft moccasins and buckskin clothing. He stepped into the light, taller than she, but not quite as tall as Zeke. Yet it was almost like looking at Zeke. She stared,
astounded, bewildered, her heart fluttering like a little girl.

“Swift Arrow!” she whispered.

He looked magnificent—not at all the way she had pictured him, thinking him to be forlorn and ragged, perhaps a drunkard by now, old and disillusioned. He stood straight and strong, a hard look still about him, even though he must be sixty. Surely not! He had always been the most handsome of the three Cheyenne brothers, but age seemed to have been good to him. In an instant she realized he had dressed his best for her, wearing bleached buckskins, brightly beaded and painted, heavily fringed. He wore a bone necklace choker-style around his muscular neck and a gold earring in one ear. His hair was brushed out clean and long, braided at one side with beads wound into it.

He studied her with dark eyes, which were lit up now with a love so obvious it could not be denied. He stepped closer, his eyes falling to the full bosom for a moment, then meeting her own eyes.

She reached out with a shaking hand. It had been so long since she had seen a Cheyenne man stand so proud and handsome. For a moment she was back at the village where Zeke had taken her when only sixteen, where she had first met this man. She touched his arm, and he had to force himself not to grab her then and there. How many years had he loved her? Forty perhaps. However long it had been since first his brother brought her to his village. Did she ever change? She was still so beautiful. He could grab her right now and ride off with her and no one would know—not for a while—not until he had taken her to his dwelling in the mountains and forced her to submit to him. But perhaps it would not take much force. Perhaps he reminded her of Zeke. Still, she was Abigail, a woman he admired above all others, a woman he respected, his brother’s widow and a respectable, gentle woman, the mother of his favorite nephew, Wolf’s Blood. He had waited all these years to tell her his true feelings, but he could not bring himself to do so even now. The fact remained that she was white, and he was full-blooded Cheyenne. He had just seen Dan leave her. Dan. He was the proper man.

“Why have you waited so long?” she asked, searching
his eyes.

He swallowed, feeling on fire at the touch of her hand on his arm. “I could not come before,” he told her in a strained voice. “It was … too hard. I knew it would take you many years … to get over my brother’s death … if indeed you ever would. And when I myself heard, I went into deep mourning. I cut myself many times and drank much whiskey and was full of sorrow. My brother was a great man. Such men, it seems, should not die at all.”

“It’s been so terrible,” she answered. “And Wolf’s Blood—”

“I know about Wolf’s Blood. I have my spies who keep me informed, for I do not like to come here.”

“But you should come, Swift Arrow. No harm will come to you. Come and visit with us. Stay here—”

He stepped back as she stepped closer. “No. I have always been alone. I cannot bear to see how my People must live here. So I stay in the mountains alone. But for a long time I have wanted to come … just to see you, Abigail … to make sure you are well … to see if …” His eyes roved her lovely form again, and she felt herself reddening under his gaze, felt her heart pounding. She had not had these pleasant feelings since Zeke. “… to see if you had changed,” he finished. “I see you have not. Do you never age, Abigail?”

Her eyes teared. “Swift Arrow, there is so much to talk about. I have thought about you so often. And to this day I remember with such fondness those days when I was so young and you taught me the Cheyenne way.”

“I was not very nice to you then. I did not want you to be there. I even hit you once for looking upon the Sacred Arrows like a foolish child. Always I have regretted that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said with a soft smile. “We grew to be great friends, and you learned to accept me. We became sister and brother.”

His jaw flexed with repressed desires. “Yes. Brother and sister.” His eyes fell to her bosom again. Then he stepped back more, holding his chin high, looking down on her rather haughtily, reminding her of the way Zeke looked sometimes—proud, so proud.

“I … cannot stay,” he told her. “I only want you to know I am well, and I wanted to be sure that you were. I go now.”

“No. Swift Arrow, wait!” she called out desperately. She reached out and grabbed at his arm.

He turned and startled her when he suddenly grabbed her close against him, pressing her breasts against his chest, embracing her in strong arms, his face close to hers.

“I tell you I must go now,” he told her in a gruff voice. “What I want cannot be. I only wanted to see you once more, to tell you I am well and you are in my prayers always, Abigail, as you have been for all these many years … as any man would pray for his … sister.”

In the darkness it seemed Zeke himself was holding her. A rush of desire swept through her, but in the next moment he let go of her. “I go. You will not hear from me again, Abigail, but I will remember you always. And do not worry about getting word to me about Wolf’s Blood. I will know. I pray for him also.”

He turned and disappeared into the darkness. She called after him, but he did not reappear, and moments later she heard a running horse. The sound faded away, and she walked on rubbery legs back onto the porch of the cabin. She clung to a porch post, trembling, feeling on fire. One moment. One brief moment and her mind and heart were whirling! She had not seen him for nearly twenty-three years, and in that one moment it seemed like yesterday, and she had felt sixteen again, had felt close to Zeke again. But it was not Zeke. It was his brother, Swift Arrow.

She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders, suddenly shivering. Why did she feel this way? She thought about a conversation she and Zeke had had many, many years ago in which he had hinted that Swift Arrow had deep feelings for her. She had ignored the true meaning of what he had been trying to tell her, and had ignored the true reason Swift Arrow had stayed in the north and had never come back south. She had always had Zeke. She would not and could not consider how any other man might feel about her, nor had she had any feelings other than friendly ones toward any other man, not even Sir Edwin Tynes.

She walked to the door. She would not tell anyone she had seen him. He wanted to be left alone and she didn’t want to make trouble for him. But she knew she would not soon forget this night, nor how it felt in that brief moment he had wrapped strong, hard arms around her. She touched the doorknob, then stopped when she heard the screech of an eagle. She frowned. An eagle at night? It couldn’t be. Yet there was no mistaking the call.

Chapter Twenty-Six

In April of 1886 the news came. Several renegade Apaches had surrendered to General Crook, who had become their friend. But Washington would not abide by Crook’s promises to the Apaches, and in fear for their lives Geronimo and Naiche (son of Cochise) had fled with twenty-four warriors back into Mexico. Thousands of soldiers were searching for them—thousands against not quite thirty frightened, desperate men. Because of the breakaway, some of those who had originally surrendered to the hated squalor of Bosque Redondo, the Apache reservation in the deserts of New Mexico, were arrested and shipped to Fort Marion, Florida, to the dreaded, mosquito-ridden, swampy prison that waited there for its Indian “convicts”; waited to claim their lives through despair, heat, deprivation and disease; the place where many red men died of broken hearts, far, far from their beloved homelands.

It was only then, when some thorough roll calls had been taken as Indian men were arrested and questioned, that news came of Wolf’s Blood. Dan gave Abbie the news with tragic eyes, his face gray with sorrow. Her heart pounded when she opened the door to see him standing there with a message in his hand.

“What is it?” she asked quickly.

Dan sighed deeply and stepped inside. “I’m afraid Wolf’s Blood has been sent to Fort Marion with several Apache men,” he told her. He watched her go white. “I’m sorry, Abbie.”

She grasped a chair. “How? Why? He’s Cheyenne! He
should be sent up here!”

“He rode with the renegades, Abbie. From what I can find out Sonora was killed in some soldier attack two or three years ago.”

She sank into a chair. “No!” she groaned. “Wolf’s Blood! My poor son!” She looked at him with wide, desperate eyes. “What about Kicking Boy and little Iris?”

“I am told two children by that name are at Bosque Redondo. Their ages are, according to record, fourteen and thirteen, and they are listed as descendants of Apache and Cheyenne parents.”

She rose, her horror replaced by a stubbornness that was unique to Abigail Monroe. “We must get them out of there! And I will get my son out of Florida!” she declared.

“Abbie, that won’t be easy—”

“You can do it!” she interrupted. “You have connections through the Army! You must try, Dan! I want my grandchildren here with me! And I want my son! I am going to Florida right away. I am going to stay at that horrible place with him until he is released or until one of us dies, but he will not stay in that hellhole alone without seeing his mother and children again. We will get Kicking Boy and Iris and we will go to Florida and get their father!”

“Abbie, I don’t know if that’s possible—”

“We’ll make it possible! What do you think Zeke would do if he were alive and heard his son was in that place? He would go and get him, even if he had to fight his way in and take him illegally!”

He grasped her shoulders. “All right. Calm down. I’ll see what I can do.”

Her eyes filled with tears, her heart screamed with desperate pain. Wolf’s Blood! Her precious Wolf’s Blood! “Please, Dan!” she said in a near whisper. “Get him out of there! And find a way to let me have my grandchildren!”

He kissed her hair and patted her shoulder. “You sit tight and wait. It might take a few days to get the proper clearances. And it’s a long way to Bosque Redondo, let alone a trip all the way across Texas and the south to Florida. Are you up to
something like that?”

“For Wolf’s Blood? Just the thought of finding my grandchildren and getting him out of there gives me strength.”

He sighed and nodded, going to the door.

“Thank you, Dan,” she spoke up.

He met her eyes. She would be easy to love, if he let himself think of her as a wife rather than as a sister. But she had been restless for the past year, often mentioning Swift Arrow and commenting on her concern for him. He saw a strange longing in her eyes when she spoke about the man. Between that and knowing there could never again be a man as important to her as Zeke, he had been unable to allow any feelings for her to build into desire. She was, after all, Abigail, and even though Zeke was dead, it didn’t really seem so. And he had known her too well over these years, had thought of her only as his brother’s wife, a superbly honorable and respected woman. Perhaps in time he would ask her to marry him, out of a sense of duty, out of honor, out of a feeling he should protect and care for his brother’s wife. He nodded to her and went out. Yes, he loved her, but not in the way he had loved Emily and Bonnie. Still, what man wouldn’t want a woman like Abigail for a wife, in spite of getting older? She had been the finest wife a man could want, just as Bonnie had been to him. He had married Bonnie more out of practicality than love. Her son needed a father and his daughter needed a mother. But that practical marriage had quickly developed into not only a deep, abiding love, but a sexually pleasurable relationship as well. Perhaps it could be that way with Abbie. But something about her remained so untouchable. Was it Zeke Monroe’s memory that kept him from thinking of her as anything but a sister? Perhaps it was foolish for him to feel that way. Perhaps he was wasting these years, for Abigail Monroe was exceedingly gracious and beautiful for her age, and there could not be a lot of time left for either of them. Should they live them out alone just because they were not sure what was proper, or because they did not have strong physical urges for one another? Wasn’t friendship enough for two such people?

Of course there was Rebecca Moon to consider. She was
perhaps forty-five, a missionary woman who had come to the reservation not long ago to teach the Indians. She was a pleasant person, who had been widowed for many years. Dan found her attractive and knew Rebecca in turn often stole glances at him and seemed to make excuses to talk to him. He liked her very much. But Abbie must come first. She was as lonely as he, as much in need of a mate as he was. He would have to do some deep thinking. But first this thing with Wolf’s Blood had to be straightened out. He hurried to the fort’s telegraph office.

The train click-clacked over the Southern Pacific tracks, from El Paso across Texas, basically following the Rio Grande, on into Louisiana and through New Orleans, changing trains and going on, through Mississippi, Alabama, and into Florida, toward its eastern coast. It had been a strenuous trip for Abbie, who had first gone to Bosque Redondo, where she had been reunited with her precious grandchildren. Kicking Boy was tall and muscular for his age, looking very much like his father and grandfather, and just as handsome. Iris was exceedingly pretty. Both of them well remembered their grandmother, and the light in their eyes at hearing she was going to try to get their father out of Florida was worth the tiring trip. They were ragged and depressed when first Abbie found them, two lonely children living with a preacher and his family, who did not treat them well. Now the proper papers had been signed. The children would be held at Bosque Redondo and cared for until Abbie returned from Florida to take them north with her.

The emotional reunion with the grandchildren had given Abbie a boost, but still her emotions suffered from all the ups and downs she was experiencing. The next step was to get Wolf’s Blood out of Fort Marion, and on the trip there Abbie experienced one of the most painful happenings in her life. She had watched the terrain change as the train rumbled east. She had not been back here since going west at fifteen. She had forgotten how thick were the forests, how tall the hardwood trees. How strange it was to see all of this again—so much
green, so much swamp and forest. How odd to feel the humid summer heat that never bothered her as a little girl because she was used to it. But she wasn’t anymore. She was used to a drier climate now, and could see why this type of environment was killing the Indians. At one time places like this were home to her. Somewhere north of these tracks lay Tennessee—her old home, her mother’s grave. Was it really she who had left Tennessee forty-one years ago? Surely it was someone else, a young girl called Abbie Trent, whose body was not yet developed into a woman’s, whose fiesty strength was to help her survive the tragedy that lay ahead for her, and whose heart knew what kind of man she wanted. Then that man had stepped into the light of her father’s campfire, and little Abbie Trent was instantly a woman in her desires and in her heart.

She struggled to breathe, feeling as though a pillow were over her face. It was August of 1886, the worst time to be traveling through the South. But she would not wait for better weather. Wolf’s Blood could be dying this very moment—desperate and lonely. She glanced at Jennifer, who had insisted on coming along, leaving her daughter behind in Montana for others to care for. Why had the woman been so persistent about coming? She had often asked about Wolf’s Blood, frequently mentioning the one and only time she had met him, when she was twelve and Zeke and Abbie had gone to Fort Laramie. Jennifer had often shown Abbie the old war shield and the coup feather Wolf’s Blood had given her that day, and her eyes would sparkle. And Abbie sensed that her son had left a lasting impression on Jennifer Monroe, one not just of a warrior cousin, but of a man who easily attracted young women. But they were cousins, and Cheyenne custom forbid marrying into family.

She frowned. Why had such a thought even entered her mind? The two of them had met only once, years ago. And Wolf’s Blood had never looked at white women with any desire. What made her think Jennifer had any feelings for him other than as a cousin, or that the very proper, very beautiful young woman would look at any Indian man—even one only part Indian—with any thoughts of marriage? She had simply
come along because she wanted to be with Dan, because she was concerned about the long trip and its effects on him, and because she had become a good friend of Abbie and thought she could help her. Still, the look in the girl’s eyes when she spoke of Wolf’s Blood made Abbie wonder.…

To the North lay the Appalachian and Blue Ridge Mountains—home. She could hear Zeke’s mandolin and his melodic voice singing mountain songs to her again. When she was a little girl, swinging in her backyard and dreaming of handsome princes and being swept away someday, she had no idea the direction her life would take, or that her prince would be a tall, dark Indian man whose eyes and touch commanded her surrender.

She thought about the ranch. On their way south to the Apache reservation, they had stopped to see Margaret and Morgan and their third boy, already four years old when Abbie saw him for the first time. Little Zeke was seventeen, tall and handsome like his grandfather, a strong young man, loyal to his parents, a big help on the ranch. Nathan was equally handsome, not quite as tall, and fifteen years old by now. Thus Morgan had two fine sons to help him on the ranch, and a third one growing into it.

The ranch looked marvelous, the horses as beautiful as ever. Morgan and the boys had done a fine job with it. But walking there, seeing the house, all brought back memories that made Abbie’s heart hurt so badly she felt physical pain. She thought she was over it but that wasn’t so, and she could not bring herself to visit the place by the stream where the irises bloomed. Some things were better left to memory and the past. To rekindle them was just too difficult, and she was not certain now that she could ever go back to the ranch to live. It was so much Morgan’s and Margaret’s now, and that was fitting. To go back would be like trying to make things the way they once were, and that was impossible. She was at least able to face that much now.

Ellen and Hal were happy, and she had seen little Dan, now three, as well as Lillian, already seven, the same age that Abbie’s own little Lillian had been when she died. But her
granddaughter Lillian was a hardy girl, who could ride a horse and even helped her father on the ranch.

Yes, her children were all doing well. LeeAnn had stayed in Montana with Joshua, for she had just given birth two months earlier to their second child, a little girl named Abigail Iris, a name that brought tears to Abbie’s eyes. That made grandchild number ten, as far as she knew. Had Jeremy ever had any children? She had never heard from him. She shook off the sorrow of it. At least he was apparently doing all right. The important thing now was to get Wolf’s Blood and take him back with her. Perhaps if she could get him to Montana, his presence would make Swift Arrow come down to the reservation to see his beloved nephew. The thought of it made her heart beat harder again. She had never forgotten that night he had come, the feel of his arms around her. But it had only been for a moment, and that was over a year ago. She had not seen him again, nor did she expect to—unless Wolf’s Blood could flush him out.

The heat and squalor of Fort Marion made Abbie shudder. Her son could not be here! Not in this horrible place! Indians died like flies here, if not of disease then of broken hearts. The children of these men had been taken from their mothers back on the reservation and shipped to Carlisle, Pennsylvania, where they were to be firmly schooled in the white man’s ways, but where they also quickly died. To the Indian, family was everything, and these families had been split apart by order of the United States government. The old ways had been brutally and forcefully ended, with no thought to a quickly vanishing culture, no thought to the Indian as a human being. Abbie had arrived at Bosque Redondo just in time to keep her own grandchildren from being sent off to Pennsylvania, where she might never have found them.

A guard led Abbie to a squalid fenced-in area, where men sat around just staring, flies and mosquitoes landing on their sweaty skin, biting at them so cruelly that they no longer even brushed them away, for they had become calloused to the bites.
The smell was overwhelming—filth and waste, dirty hair and dirty bodies of men who no longer cared. She had begged Dan to let her come here alone, and against his better judgment he had relented. Papers had been left with the prison master, verifying that the one called Wolf’s Blood was not even Apache but Cheyenne and belonged in Montana; also verifying that he was three-quarters white, even though he did not look it.