Sunflower (37 page)

“Is it time to go, Mama?” Kase asked impatiently.

“As soon as Tor gets here. Why don’t you go out on the porch and watch for him?”

The boy ran quickly to the door, his dark hair bobbing as he moved. He looked quite the young gentleman in his wool suit and suspenders, his shoes shined to a high gleam.

“I hope nobody cuts that pie before we get there,” Abbie spoke up as she walked impatiently to the window and drew the curtain aside. The woman seemed as anxious as Kase for the party to begin.

“He’s here!” Kase shouted as he popped in the doorway and then out again.

Analisa drew a lightweight shawl over her shoulders, knotted it across her breasts, then ran her hand up the back of her neck to catch any stray wisps of hair that might have slipped from the coil on her head.

“You look lovely, dear,” Ruth whispered behind her as they moved toward the doorway. “I only wish Caleb was here to see you. He would be so proud.”

Unexpectedly Analisa felt her eyes mist over with tears. She, too, wished Caleb were here. Suddenly she knew she was anxious to see him, not because of the information she wanted, but because she truly missed having him beside her. Ruth’s presence only made that fact more apparent to Analisa. Her excitement over attending her first social gathering was lessened by Caleb’s not being here to share it with her. Apprehension assailed her at the thought of moving among so many people as an equal. Indeed, in their eyes she was supposed to be something more than an equal, as the wife of Professor Don Ricardo Corona de la Vega. All week she’d been so involved in her sewing efforts that the thought of what this night would mean had escaped her. Overwhelmed, she stopped before she reached the threshold. Kase and Abbie were already moving toward the pathway as Tor stood looking back toward the house.

“Analisa?” Ruth’s voice sounded far away, but it served to call her back to the present.

“I can’t go.” Analisa was surprised at the sound of her own voice, a croaking whisper. Fear constricted her throat.

“Are you ill, dear? You look so pale.”

She blinked twice as she studied the worried look in Ruth’s eyes. Unable to speak, Analisa merely shook her head.

“What is it?”

“I can’t do this, Ruth,” she said at last. “I don’t know how. I have never been among such a large group of people ... since ... I ... I don’t belong there. It is not right.”

Ruth was silent for a moment before she spoke. Analisa watched as the smaller woman drew herself up and reached out to place a hand on each of her shoulders.

“Listen to me. You have every right to be there tonight. If Caleb were here, you know he’d tell you the same thing. Make him proud of you, Analisa. Hold your head high and walk into that place as if you own it. Do you understand?”

Analisa took one deep breath and then another to calm her racing heart. The palms of her hands were sweating. She knew that there was no sense in looking back, there never had been. Through the open door she could see the lights shining in the commissary windows, and she watched as silhouetted figures moved across them. When would it become easy? Would she ever be able to leave the past behind? One thing was certain, she would never forgive herself if she did not face her own fears. Analisa toyed with the ends of her shawl. Finally she nodded at Ruth and whispered her answer.

“Yes. I’m ready.”

“Good, then, let’s go. The others are waiting.”

Caleb dismounted slowly and held his spine straight in order to conceal his usual fluid movements. Bowler hat poised atop his head, he stood beside Scorpio and surveyed the darkened stable yard. The sounds of horses shuffling around in the corrals and stalls that lined the long wooden building filled the night air. He could hear music in the distance and wondered for a moment if it came from the enlisted men’s quarters, for often in the evenings the soldiers amused themselves with song. Light from a single lamp inside the tack room slipped through a slight opening where the door stood ajar. Listening intently, Caleb heard the sound of bootshod feet moving about in the small room. He guessed it was Zach Elliot.

Several burlap bags full of plant samples and cuttings hung from Caleb’s saddle, many with root balls intact. He’d give a month’s pay just to see the expression on Ely Parker’s face when he opened the first crate of plants shipped to an address established for their exchange of information. None of the plants were of value or the least bit extraordinary. Caleb collected the samples at random on each return trip to the fort in order to provide some cover for his absence. Now that he’d discovered proof that Hardy was guilty of illegal dealings with the Indians, he hoped that the charade would end soon.

Releasing the bags from his saddle, he lowered them to the ground and gave Scorpio an affectionate scratch beneath his jaw.

“Your friend doesn’t look as happy to be here as you are, boy.” He whispered softly to his own mount as he unwound the lead rope from the pommel of his saddle. At the end of the line skittered a nervous pinto, its soft eyes round with fear. The pony was one of six that Caleb now owned and let run with the renegade herd. Horses stolen from other bands comprised the lot. A Sioux’s wealth was judged by the string of horseflesh he owned, and so Caleb had begun to amass his own small herd as soon as he joined the band.

He hoped the spirited pinto would eventually make a fine mount for Kase. For now he would warn Elliot to keep the boy off the pony and secure it, for the animal would most likely attempt to return to the herd if given its head. The trick would be to convince Zach Elliot that, as Don Ricardo, he had no knowledge of the worth of the pinto.

He took a deep breath, straightened his glasses, and wrapped the lead rope around his hand before he set off toward the tack room to face Elliot.

“Señor Elliot,” Caleb called out as he stood near the slightly open door. He listened as the man inside set something down on the wooden workbench that lined one wall.

Zach opened the door wide, and light spilled out, staining the crooked back step with its yellow light.

The man in the doorway nodded a silent greeting.

“Señor Elliot,” Caleb began again, heavily lacing his words with the lisping Castilian accent, “I have returned with a new horse for my son. Perhaps you will be so kind as to look the animal over for me?”

Stepping aside as Zach moved wordlessly out of the tack room and into the path of light cast by the oil lamp suspended from the ceiling of the tiny closetlike room, Caleb fumbled with the rope wrapped about his hand. Finally allowing the line to pull free, he passed it to Zach and stepped back to allow the other man to lead the pony into the arch of lamplight beyond the doorway.

Caleb cleared his throat and met Zach’s stare before the scout turned his attention to the pinto. Running his hands over the horse’s chest and down each leg, Zach chose to remain silent as he assessed the worth of the animal in the darkness, his hands telling him more about the horse than his eye could see. The man finally straightened and moved to stand near the pony’s head, holding fast to the rope bridle.

He spat into the dust. “Where’dja get this horse?”

Caleb noted the suspicion that tainted the man’s tone. “My friend, it is a long story. I was on my way back from gathering plant specimens when I came upon an Indian and his family camped near the river.”

Zach stared out from beneath the floppy brim of his hat and spat again.

Don Ricardo cleared his throat nervously and continued. “They were in need of food, and I had supplies left. Knowing I would be here within a few hours, I offered them food. The man insisted I take the horse in return. I gave them a gold piece in trade as well, but I have no idea of the animal’s worth.”

Elliot expressed himself in what Caleb could only describe as a doubtful grunt and spat one more stream of tobacco juice before he spoke. He pushed the brim of his hat back with a gnarled thumb and indicated the pony with a quick nod.

“It’ll do.”

“Will it run off, do you think?” Caleb asked, knowing full well the horse would bolt if given half a chance.

“Yep. I’ll keep him corraled till he gets used to bein’ here. Wouldn’t do for the boy to be hurt.”

Caleb’s eyes widened in alarm at the man’s words. “If you think there is a chance of my son’s becoming harmed by the worthless animal, I’ll turn it loose immediately.”

“I’ll watch ‘em both.” Zach stroked the pony’s nose.

“Gracias,
Señor Elliot.
Gracias.”
Caleb bowed slightly, formally, before he turned to lead Scorpio into the corral.

“Mr. de la Vega?”

Zach’s voice cut the air, demanding Caleb’s attention.

“¿Sí?”

“How’d you understand that Indian fella you ran into?”

“¿Perdón?”

“How’d you know he wanted to trade the horse for food?”

Zach’s face was blank. Caleb could detect no suspicion there and yet he knew the man must have a reason for asking such a question.

“Señor,
a man learns through traveling that one can be understood in any language if he desires to be. The hands tell many things, as do the eyes.” Caleb returned the man’s stare unflinchingly.

“I guess they do at that, Mr. de la Vega. They do at that.”

Bowing slightly again, Caleb reached for Scorpio’s reins.

“I’ll see to your horse, de la Vega.”

The man’s kind words surprised him, but Caleb covered his response by handing the reins to Zach and reaching into his pocket for a coin.

“Forget it,” Zach said. “I thought you might like to hurry so’s you can join your wife at the fancy fandango they’re throwin’ in the mess hall.”

“How kind of you,
señor
.”

“De nada.”
Elliot answered in Spanish.

Caleb wondered if it was an attempt on the man’s part to let him know he was familiar with the language. Perhaps not. He rejected the idea, for many men who traveled the frontier knew a few words of many languages. Zach Elliot was probably one of them. Handing the reins over to the scout, Caleb stopped long enough to remove his bags and baggage from the saddle and, shouldering them, moved off into the night. He could sense Zach’s stare through the darkness and so made a great show of tripping on the uneven ground, regaining his balance just before he dropped the bags of cuttings. Shifting the weight of the bags, he turned toward the row of houses across the open square.

The commissary had been transformed into a most unusual ballroom. Analisa stared around the room again as she stood behind the serving table with Abbie Oats. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, but she found it not too unpleasant a sensation. Ruth had been right. Analisa discovered she was not only accepted at the gathering but welcomed. Soon, she hoped, the wounds of her past would heal.

The room was festooned with swags of red cotton, the fabric having been generously loaned to the ladies of the decorating committee by the trader, Wilber Gentry. Bouquets of wildflowers stood at either end of the long serving table and formed a ring around the punch bowl as well. The table was laden with pies, cakes, cookies, and breads, some nearly entirely eaten by men long starved for home-cooked meals. The long tables used by the soldiers during mealtime had been pushed back away from the center of the room; they were lined up three deep in places, but no one seemed to notice the inconvenience. Analisa watched as couples danced past the refreshment table, whirling and bouncing to a lively tune played on banjo, fiddle, and harmonica. Her eyes scanned the crowd as she sought out Kase and found him standing on a bench with two other boys. Both were slightly older than he, and from the similarity of their looks, Analisa guessed they were brothers. The trio giggled and pointed at the dancers, caught up in the high spirits of the adults.

She ladled a cup of punch made from lemon extract for one of the enlisted men who stood gazing at her appreciatively. Analisa was forced to look away, embarrassed by the open admiration in his eyes. She had chosen to help Abbie tend to the table in order to rest her throbbing feet after nearly an hour of continuous dancing. No sooner had they entered the room than she’d been asked to dance by first one and then another of the men. Frank Williamson had no chance to claim her and immediately asked for an introduction to Ruth. Analisa obliged him and noted that Ruth had danced with him more than a few times since and even now stood beside the tall officer, laughing gaily up into his eyes as he inclined his head in her direction. The contrast of colors, Ruth’s raspberry silk beside the midnight blue of Major Williamson’s uniform, presented a stunning picture that Analisa could not help but admire.

“Have you ever seen such a show?” Abbie’s voice rode high above the music as she drew Analisa’s attention back to the dancers. The colorful gathering moved in a jumbled mass about the room with no attempt at organization. Lively dance steps degenerated into out-and-out stomping. The dancers were allowed no time to rest, although none seemed to require such, for the musicians merely exchanged instruments with others and took up dancing once their repertoire had been exhausted. Occasionally, someone would join in and play Analisa’s organ, which stood against the wall, pounding joyously on the keys as he pumped the pedals mercilessly.

As her thoughts turned to Caleb, Analisa wondered what he would think when she told him she had traveled to the Sioux agency against his wishes. She knew instinctively that he would be angry, but just how angry and for how long she could not guess.

“A penny for your thoughts, Mrs. de la Vega.”

“Major!” Analisa looked up quickly in response to the words spoken so close to her side. “You startled me.”

“Allow me to apologize, then, by asking for a dance.”

Analisa suddenly remembered Caleb’s assertion that the major was attracted to her. If she accepted, would she encourage him without intending to? She was determined not to cause a rift between this man and her husband.

“Has Ruth lost your attention so suddenly, Major?” Analisa glanced around, hoping that he would be distracted by Caleb’s attractive stepmother, but was unable to find her in the maze of dancers.