I will explain in more detail later if you like. I know you would prefer this not come up at this time, especially after all the improvements you have made on the land, but it must be defended in court.
Since it has to do with Indians, the case will be heard in federal court in Washington, D.C. I could hire a solicitor to represent us there, but my belief is that too many cooks spoil the stew. If you have a preference as to how you want this handled, any questions, or any information I would find useful in defending you against this claim, please let me know at once.
In the meantime, do not be alarmed. Our government is not about to start giving land back to the Indians, no matter how valid their claims. That is not our government’s policy. But unfortunately, this suit does have to be defended. However, it would upset me greatly if I thought you were seriously discomfited by this pseudothreat. Please rest assured that our government is still run by sane men.
Remaining yours truly,
Jerome Abbott, Esquire
Attorney-at-Law
Samantha looked through the thick sheaf of legal papers and the handwritten copy of the document filed against her by Crows Walking’s attorney.
Supporting documents proved that Crows Walking was the descendant of Sun In The Sky, who had married a Spaniard and inherited the Rio Conchos Land Grant upon his death. The suit included a copy of a codicil to the will that went into great length about how adamant the Spaniard was that his wife, who had taken care of him with great tenderness and borne him two sons, should be given the same respect in court that he would be entitled to if only he had lived.
Samantha walked to her desk and sat down. Apparently the Papago Indians inherited matrilineally. The suit laboriously traced Crows Walking’s descent from Sun In The Sky to the present. Samantha could not believe the court had accepted his claim. Surely he had no formal birth certificates for all these intervening people. That alone should disqualify his presumptuous suit.
However, reading further she learned that apparently the Papago did have formal historians who had recorded births and deaths in verifiable ways. The most damning evidence seemed to be that Crows Walking had in his possession the original parchment land grant dated August 9, 1710.
A knot formed in Samantha’s stomach. Of all the things she’d worried about, losing her land to the Indians had not been one of them.
In bitterness and silent rage she walked outside and looked around. The usual fragrance of the desert was obliterated by the stench of cattle being branded for sale—another sign of her failure to conquer this land.
She would have to tell Steve Sheridan. At the thought of seeing him, a thrill of pleasure momentarily lightened her savage mood. Would this calamity soften his granite heart?
She imagined herself confronting him. Would his sometimes hazel, sometimes khaki eyes reflect sympathy or derision?
The thought that he might be against her in this caused a heavy sinking in her middle. It would change nothing, though. She would have to stop construction immediately, send Steve away, and wait alone through the agony of a court trial to decide if she owned her own land—land she’d paid for.
If she won, she could ask him to come back and finish the house. But he might be committed elsewhere by then. And there probably wasn’t even a house started yet. But thoughts of not building the new house increased her rage and grief. She was losing everything all over again.
As a child she had lost her parents. As a young woman she had lost her beloved to another woman. As a wife she had lost her husband to death. As a mother she was constantly threatened by the fear of losing her son to consumption. She tolerated all this, and had even learned to live with uncertainty, grief, loss, and fear.
Now she stood to lose fifty thousand acres of land and three years’ work. Three years of her life wiped out as if it had never existed. This morning her life had seemed good, purposeful, useful. Now, with the specter of losing her land, losing her home, the world was suddenly a terrifying place again.
Overwhelmed by her feelings, she stood and walked quickly away from the house. After a time she stopped and looked around her. She’d walked south, to the bend in the creek, out of sight of the house and the cattle and the Indians’ camp. She could still hear the raucous cries of the cowboys and the outraged bellows of the branded cattle, but she was glad for that racket.
Concealed from all prying eyes, she sat down by the tiny trickle of slimy water and let the tears come. Once started, the pain was terrible. She felt as if every disaster of her life had coalesced into one horrible grief-stricken moment. She cried hard and bitterly. She renounced life. It was too difficult, too unrewarding, too uncertain.
After a time, the tears stopped; she roused herself. Catastrophe had struck, but she had realized in the midst of all that crying that she still had something to be grateful for. This calamity wasn’t the loss she feared most. Nicholas was safe and getting stronger each year. And she had enough money to buy another piece of land. The Arizona Territory was enormous.
And it was good she’d found out about the suit in time, before she’d put a great deal of money into the new house. She could still start over again.
She would have to tell Steve, send him away. She needed to do that immediately and get it over with, but her body felt like lead.
Finally she forced herself to get up and walk to the house. She changed into her most attractive riding habit—cerulean blue with black piping around the high neckline and at her wrists. She put her hair up and attached a high-topped, black riding hat.
Whenever she felt insecure, she dressed more carefully. Her reflection in the mirror pleased her. Her eyes appeared bigger, more luminous, with only slight puffiness. The hat attracted attention upward, gave her a haughty look, which was exactly what she needed now.
At last, she blew her nose again and went to tell Juana and Tristera where she was going.
Steve looked up from his work to see what the commotion was about. Men had stopped work to crane their necks. Steve rubbed his back, straightened, and saw Samantha Forrester riding up the hill. The sight of her—slim and proud astride a racy black mare—the two of them silhouetted against the light blue sky, jolted him, caused his heart to pound and his stomach to tighten. Her pale blue riding habit emphasized her tiny waist and the fullness of her breasts.
In spite of the control he exerted over himself, his heart expanded with joy at the sight of her. Then he remembered their disagreement, and his tongue tasted iron. She’d come to apologize or fire him, and he didn’t care which. Maybe firing him would put him out of his misery.
Steve looked down at his sweat-soaked shirt and his callused hands. He wasn’t a laborer, but he was as filthy as one. Whenever he was upset, he took refuge in physical labor. Wearing himself out was better than riding down the mountain, dragging her out of bed, and forcing himself on her.
Samantha dismounted in the shade of a pine tree, dropped her reins, and watched Steve walk slowly forward to greet her. She could almost see him tamping himself into containment. Anger in her felt like an overwhelming need to do something, even if it was wrong. Apparently in him it turned stubbornness to stone. By the time he reached her, he looked fully composed behind his sleek, unsmiling facade.
He looked browner and stronger, and even more resistent, if that were possible. Samantha knew he would kiss her if she fell into his arms, but he wouldn’t put himself out to try to win her.
The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. Except for the dirty bandage above his elbow, his arms were bare and gleaming with sweat.
“Are you supposed to be digging ditches?” she asked.
“As the boss I can do anything I want.”
He was still furious with her. She girded herself against him, felt a tightening down the length of her body. Despite his anger and his dirty, sweaty clothes, he was virile and attractive. His heavy shoulders strained against the fabric of his once white shirt.
“I have bad news,” she said, looking away to recov
er her train of thought. She was glad she had important business to discuss with him; she would have hated to confront so much masculine resistance otherwise. “I’m being sued. I may lose my land. Even the land under the new house.”
“When did this happen?”
“I received this packet today.”
Frowning, Steve wiped perspiration off his damp forehead, took the packet from her, eased the papers out, and read. Samantha leaned against the tree trunk and waited, tapping her riding crop against her skirt.
At the house site, men worked in unaccustomed silence. Sounds of tools striking and wheelbarrows rolling on makeshift wooden ramps competed with the calls of mockingbirds and sparrows. White puffs of clouds had formed near the horizon. The air was clear and warm. She could see almost to Tucson.
At last Steve folded the papers and passed them back to her. “I think you’re being sued by the man who raised me.”
“I wondered about that. Does that make you my enemy?”
“You mean more than I already am?” he asked, fixing her with a piercing look. “Shouldn’t, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Is it him?”
“I’d been visiting Crows Walking and Uncheedah just before I came upon you and your train. He didn’t mention anything about this to me, but I was only there a couple of days.”
“It’s probably him,” she whispered.
“Though, I do remember Crows Walking talking about a paper a few years ago that was supposed to undo the damage the whites had done to his people. I told him once if this paper was so powerful, he should use it. But he could never bring himself to do it. Indians are slow to act. They prefer to bide their time. And when they finally do act, it is a tribal decision, agreed to by all the elders. And it’s damned hard to get all those old men to agree to anything. I don’t know how Crows Walking did it.”
“Well, apparently he did.”
Samantha turned away. “It doesn’t matter, really.” She faced south and looked at the desert glistening silvery gray under the afternoon sun. “I’ve tried to do too much here. I wanted this land to flower. I hired men to survey and build canals, but canals only work if there’s water. I’m selling my cattle because I have no choice. Now I’m in danger of losing everything, even my home, of being put off my own land. What an outrage!”
Fury sparkled in her lovely eyes. It was not surprising that she was taking it hard. She was a woman connected to the land. In his mind, he saw her the way she’d been the night he kissed her—kneeling, reaching down into the sand, at one and at peace with the Earth.
Steve couldn’t imagine her actually losing her land. But if somehow she did, he could imagine her wreaking her vengeance on her betrayers, whoever she perceived them to be.
“My stock is being rounded up for sale. For all intents and purposes I’m no longer a rancher,” she said angrily. “The rains haven’t come. I thought every problem could be solved. I’ve thrown money at them, but they may be bigger than my bankroll.” Her voice was husky, slightly tremulous. He had never seen her so agitated or so vulnerable.
“What will you do if you lose?”
“I won’t lose!”
“Pardon me, but you were the one who said you were going to stop building the house, so in case you lose…”
“Well, I won’t lose. I can’t lose. This is my land. I own it, and no one can take it from me. I’ll fight him to the death. Attorneys cost money. How long can a poor Indian afford attorney’s fees?”
“Maybe someone took the case on speculation.”
She blinked. “You’re not…” Her voice faltered.
“Paying for this? No.”
“Even so, I don’t expect to lose.” She paused, waiting to see if she meant it. “In case I do lose, do you think Crows Walking would sell me this mountain?”
“Indians don’t sell land. And I can’t imagine an Indian winning anything away from a white woman in court.”
In a sudden display of anger, Samantha thwacked her riding crop against the tree trunk. “Damn! I don’t want to throw good money after bad, but…”
Steve frowned. “I feel like a traitor saying this, but I think your attorney is right. Every year the reservations grow smaller as the government opens more Indian land to settlement.”
That was what she wanted to hear, but it made her cautious. “What if…” She stopped, unable to find the words for her most deeply felt terrors.
“Anything might happen. My guess is you’re safe, but it’s your decision. If you want us to stop, there’s nothing here that can’t be stopped.”
Samantha glanced at the building site. Three tiers of bricks rose along one side of the house. It was already started. Her heart felt crushed at the thought of stopping work. She didn’t want to lose the wonderful house he could build her.
“I hesitate to tell you this, because it might be misunderstood,” said Steve cautiously, “but building the house might even strengthen your case. I can’t imagine any court giving away your land with improvements on it. They would have to reimburse you somehow.”
“Why are you telling me this? Crows Walking raised you.”
“I’m a pragmatist. In the long view, civilizations are always built on the bones of the past.”
“My uncle Chantry talked once about how he’d deliberately built something that had to be torn down, just to increase the value of the property for a condemnation action.”
She sensed Steve waiting for her decision. “No,” she said, taking a deep breath, “continue. If I lose, I lose. I’ll deal with it then.”
“I hope I didn’t talk you into anything.”
“No, this is what I want to do.”
“Good.” His smile of approval warmed her. “How’s Nicholas?” he asked.
“He—he’s fine.” She glanced at him warily. “I’m sorry about the reata,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I realize now that you were just trying to help him. I know you went to a lot of trouble for him. I didn’t mean to…embarrass you…or hurt your feelings.”
Steve nodded.
“Please forgive me.”
She sounded so sweet and humble that he softened. “Nothing to forgive,” he said huskily.
“Please?”
Steve spread his hands. “Yes. Whatever you want.”
Her smile warmed him all the way to his toes. She surprised him further by reaching out and touching his arm above the bandage. “Thank you, Steve. Now, show me around the house. I want to see everything. I hate gambling worse than drinking quinine, especially where my land is involved. But if I’m going to roll the dice, I might as well enjoy the game.”
The foundation had been poured and was still drying in the forms. Steve showed her where men were building forms for the enormous one-by-two-foot adobe bricks. Along the perimeter of the house men were nailing up two-by-fours to frame the interior walls. In another area, men were breaking out the formed bricks and lifting them onto pallets. Others loaded them onto flat wheelbarrows and rolled them to where the bricklayers worked. Each one of the adobe bricks was so heavy it took two men to lift it. A dozen bricklayers worked at intervals around the basement walls.
“How wonderful,” exclaimed Samantha. “So much has been done!”
Pleased with her excitement, Steve showed her everything. When she was ready to leave, he walked her back to her horse, who was munching ferns beneath the pine tree.
She picked up her horse’s reins and turned to face him. “There’s a social in Picket Post Saturday morning. I’d like you to come with us.”
“Me? Why?”
“Do I have to have a reason?”
“I thought a visit from a lively fella like Lando would keep you breathless for at least a month.” He looked like he could say more, but his lips tightened and his jaw clamped shut. She noticed that he sported what looked like a razor cut above his top lip. Her own lips tingled with the sudden memory of his mouth, which had tasted like warm, sweet sun-dried figs—a heady experience for her.
>
Samantha frowned. She had lost her train of thought. She decided to ignore this new opportunity to fight with him. “I want you to go with me,” she said simply.
“Are you going alone?”
“Captain Rathwick is riding out to escort us,” she said. “I think it’s mostly for Tristera, though.”
“My old friend Rathwick, huh?”
“He’s much nicer than you might think. You don’t have to spend time with him.”
“Does Lando know you have all these other beaus?”
“No, because I don’t. Please?” She could have cut her tongue out for pleading. Her face felt hot as fire. She had no idea why she was even asking him.
“I’ll see how I feel on Saturday.”
Perturbed that it was the only commitment she could get from him, she mounted and frowned down at him. “We can at least hope that you will feel up to it,” she said stiffly.
The left corner of Steve’s mouth quirked up, which infuriated her. She should fire him. He seemed bent on humiliating her, or else he was punishing her for the sacrilege of making him angry the other day. Either way he was entirely too prideful.
But he didn’t relent. His eyes, hazel in the bright sunlight, sparkled with male purpose and indignation. Her gaze was the one to drop. Feeling suddenly as if she’d bitten into something bitter, she turned her horse and galloped down the hill, feeling like an out-of-control child—rushing around trying to get her needs satisfied and disgracing herself in the process.
Halfway down the hill, Samantha stopped her horse abruptly. She must be out of her mind to get upset over Steve Sheridan. Only this morning her beloved had invited her to meet him in Phoenix on Sunday. He’d never done anything like that before. And what was her response? She had immediately ridden up the hill and invited Steve Sheridan to go to a social with her on Saturday!
A month ago she would have put Lance’s letter next to her heart and begun packing that moment. But, she thought, defending herself, it wasn’t every day that someone filed suit against her. The suit had distressed her, that was all.
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