by Sandi Rog
Jean-Marc didn’t know how to respond, so he kept quiet. A long silence passed between them as his fingers squeezed the ring over and over again in his fist. Ma’heo’o had obviously left these people, left this city. Jean-Marc would leave too and find Him elsewhere.
“I’m saying this for your own good, son.” The marshal shifted on his feet. “I think it’d be best if you left town.”
“I plan to, sir.” There was no way he would hide out at Mountain Jack’s as his father had suggested. The mad citizens of Denver City fueled Jean-Marc’s anger for vengeance. He would join the renegades.
The marshal placed his hat back on his head. “I think the sooner you leave the better. I’ll escort you back to your father’s house. And my deputy will escort you out of town.”
After saying goodbye to his father and promising one day to return, Jean-Marc left Denver City. He never looked back.
Until now.
What in the world was he doing here? Had he gone completely mad? Perhaps. He’d gone mad for a woman. A woman who loved a place he despised.
And now, she probably despised him. He wouldn’t be surprised if she refused to go back with him to his village now. Likely, she thought him no better than Uncle Horace for what he’d done. He turned that fateful moment over in his mind, like he’d done every day since the incident. There had been no other way to hush her up.
With amazing calm, he tied his horse outside the hotel. Right now, he needed sleep; he’d ridden all day and through the night.
A porter held the door for him.
“Take care of my horse,” he said to the man as he went into the building.
The man raised his brow.
Jean-Marc stopped and stared him down, not in the mood for an argument.
The man nodded quickly and stepped out to take the horse to the livery stable.
“Where’s Hervé staying these days?” Jean-Marc called over his shoulder before the door closed.
“Who wants to know?”
“Your boss.” Jean-Marc cast a weary glance at him. He knew the fellow was just doing his job, but he was too tired to appreciate his caution.
“Sir? Mr. Charvet?”
“Yes.”
The porter’s eyes widened as he looked Jean-Marc over for the first time. He straightened and thrust his chest out. “Room 114, sir.”
Jean-Marc tipped his hat. “Take good care of my horse. I rode him hard.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that, sir.” The man quickly disappeared.
Jean-Marc trudged up the stairs, his jangling spurs and large boots making his feet feel twice their weight and size. He missed his light, comfortable moccasins. When he made his way down the quiet hall to room 114, he noticed a light coming from under the door. He hadn’t wanted to wake him, but anxious to see his old friend, he was glad to know he was awake. He knocked. Why would he be up at such a late hour anyway?
“Who’s there?” A familiar, muffled voice came from the other side of the door.
“It’s Jean-Marc.”
He heard brisk footsteps and the door swung open. There stood his father’s old friend and confidant.
“Oh la vache!” Hervé spoke in French, his father’s native tongue, and it made Jean-Marc feel at home. A familiar pang of longing wrenched in his gut. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hervé grabbed him by the shoulders, dragged him into the room then held him at arm’s length.
“I thought I’d never see you again. I had hope when Miss Anna arrived, but never dared dream you’d show your face in this town again.” Hervé’s eyes welled with tears and Jean-Marc’s throat hurt all over again. “It’s good to see you, son.”
“It’s good to see you.” Jean-Marc nearly choked on the words. Hervé’s hair had gone gray and a few more wrinkles covered his face, but he still looked good. He hadn’t seen Hervé since the day he’d left Denver City.
“How are you doing? It’s been so long. Too long. Jack talked to the marshal. You managed to help capture those Batland Boys.”
Jean-Marc nodded.
“They murdered and robbed a lot of people in these parts. Denver City will be grateful.”
“I don’t care about Denver.”
“What’s brought you back? Why are you here?”
A silence fell between them.
“It’s Miss Anna, isn’t it?” Hervé’s eyes twinkled.
Not wanting to explain himself, Jean-Marc asked, “What are you doing up so late? I didn’t expect you to be awake.”
“It’s Miss Anna. She’s been sick since she arrived. Some kind of stomach flu.”
“What?” Jean-Marc went cold. “Did you have the doctor look at her?”
Hervé’s brows furrowed. “Oui, but it was his apprentice. I’m sure she’ll get over it soon.”
“It could be something serious.”
“I’ve had one of the chambermaids take care of her. By now, she ought to be resting. It’s not as bad as it sounds. She’ll be up and around tomorrow, like she always is.”
“I want to see her.” The thought of being this close to Anna made his heart race. He had to see her. To see if she was well, to see her face before the hurt and anger showed in her eyes.
Hervé stepped back. “Jean-Marc, you may own this hotel, but it doesn’t give you the right to sneak into a decent lady’s room.”
“She’s my wife. Now take me to her.”
Hervé gaped in silence then ran a hand through his hair. “So it’s true. Why didn’t you send word?”
“There was no way I could from the Batland Boys’ hideout. If I tried to send anything, I would have been found out. Besides, Jack knew. She’s been well cared for?”
“Bien sûr! The marshal told me she’d been robbed.” He cleared his throat. “By you.”
Jean-Marc breathed deeply. “I’ll explain later, but you already know the circumstances. It was all a farce.” He moved toward the door. “Now, are you going to take me to my wife or not?”
“The town gossips are in an uproar that your wife is having an affair,” Hervé said as he led Jean-Marc down the hall.
Jean-Marc stopped. White-hot jealousy pounded his temples. “An affair? Avec qui?” The walls seemed to shake. When he got his hands on this man, he’d kill him.
“Shh,” Hervé put his finger to his mouth. “It’s nothing like that. The man is moi. A couple nights ago I took her to the theater, and people started talking. I assure you, she has no interest in me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
Jean-Marc resumed his step. Right now all that mattered was to see that she was safe. He’d worried about her to the point of feeling sick. Finally, he could see her. Even if she hated him, he would at least know she was well.
Hervé handed Jean-Marc an oil lamp and key and then stayed in the hallway as Jean-Marc crept into her room. The lamp cast long shadows over the walls and small bed. He recognized her sleeping form under the covers, and the lamp lit up the braid draped over her shoulder like a rope of gold. While still long, the braid was shorter than when he last saw her. She’d cut her hair. Why would she do such a thing?
He knelt next to the bed, careful to keep the lamp at a distance so as not to awaken her. Her lashes rested against her lily-white cheeks. She’d lost her coloring from the sun. Her lips, pressed together, still looked as tempting and beautiful as when he’d first kissed them. How he ached to take her in his arms. Instead, he brushed his knuckles lightly across her cheek.
She stirred.
His hand froze and he held his breath, but she continued sleeping.
Finally, he stood and crept from the room. She was safe. All was well, and now he’d find a doctor to rid her of this illness.
How would he win her trust again? Would she ever forgive him?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anna pranced into the lobby. Today she’d start her new job.
“Where is everyone?” Anna asked Mr. Dubois as she glanced around the empty lobby.
“Why don’t you go see for yourself?�
�� He smiled a mischievous grin. “You’ll find them all in front of the marshal’s office. It’s a grand celebration.” He bent down behind the counter and pulled out a Rocky Mountain News and a Denver Post. “And take some of these.”
Beneath lightly falling flakes, Anna read an article from the Denver Post as she headed toward the marshal’s office.
Batland Boys Hung In Leadville!
Despite local partisanship, Jean-Marc Charvet will arrive in Denver City to a hero’s welcome after infiltrating and capturing the stagecoach bandits, who not only terrorized Denver citizens, but also murdered his father, an upstanding citizen, Franck Charvet.
Anna stopped and read the words again. He wasn’t a thief. He was a hero.
The day of the robbery flashed through her mind. He’d saved her from nearly being ravaged. He’d kept telling her to be quiet, and when she wouldn’t—he’d silenced her in the only way he could. She’d believed he was a thief. And no better than Uncle Horace. Shame swept through her.
A woman brushed by, snapping Anna out of her thoughts. It had stopped snowing, and along the street a large crowd gathered in front of several booths. Her hands and feet became cold in her thin gloves and boots. Still, she eased her way through the mass of people and alongside a booth where women passed out fliers advocating their right to vote.
“Women have been given the right to vote in Cheyenne, Wyoming! We should have that right too!” a woman shouted.
Outside the office the marshal stood on a makeshift platform and shouted to the crowd. “And now, you can hear the story from my fine deputy, Joe Morgan.”
The crowd cheered and applauded.
As Anna entered the crowd before the marshal’s platform, she spotted the woman from the dry good’s store standing in front of her. The woman held her mother’s arm, and both dabbed their eyes.
Anna stopped, hoping they wouldn’t see her.
Deputy Morgan’s voice droned over the crowd as he shared with the audience all the atrocities the Batland Boys had done to several Denver families.
“Those animals that killed Daddy have finally gotten what they deserved,” the young woman said. “They also killed poor Mr. Charvet’s father.”
Anna spotted White Eagle standing next to the platform. She knew White Eagle’s father had died, but always thought it’d been in an Indian battle. It hadn’t occurred to her that because he was white he had died some other way, especially this way. Of course, now it all made sense.
“That’s him,” the woman said to her mother.
“Who?” The older woman craned her neck.
“That’s Mr. Charvet.” The young woman pointed toward the platform. “Oh, he’s handsome,” she said as if surprised.
Anna stood on tiptoe to see over the crowd. Between several shoulders, heads, hats, and bonnets she spotted White Eagle’s long form walking up to the platform. His spurs jangled, and he wore his bandit’s clothes and cowboy hat, reminding her of the last moments they had together. The shocking discovery of his being a thief. What a fool she’d been.
The crowd cheered and clapped as Anna threaded her way between the people to get a closer look.
The marshal shook White Eagle’s hand. “Won’t you say a few words for us, Mr. Charvet?” he shouted above the crowd.
As she squeezed by one last person and came a few feet from the platform, the crowd quieted. She froze when White Eagle’s gaze met hers. He didn’t smile, and appeared rather serious considering he was being honored as the town hero.
“I came to Denver City for one reason.” He kept his eyes locked with hers. “One reason alone.” With that, he tipped his hat then turned, nodded to the marshal and stepped down from the platform.
The crowd cheered and roared. Several people clamored toward him.
“Thank you, Mr. Charvet!” a woman’s voice carried above the crowd. Anna saw that it was the mean woman’s mother who had shouted. “Those boys robbed and killed my James.”
“My father’s death has been avenged, all because of you!” the younger woman shouted.
Anna cringed. If only White Eagle knew what that woman’s father had done to his people. Anna gritted her teeth as she watched the woman dab her eyes, crying out praises to White Eagle.
The sun broke between the clouds as he tipped his hat and tried to maneuver away from the people, but they wouldn’t let him pass.
Anna marched up to the young woman, clutching the newspapers to her chest to keep from shaking. “You hypocrite.” She glared at the woman before her, surprised by her sudden burst of courage.
The woman stepped back, not recognizing Anna. Finally, her eyes widened. “You.”
“Yes, me,” Anna said, full of fury. “And that man whom you honor today is one of the people you think would be better off dead.”
“Obviously more white blood flows through Mr. Charvet’s veins than that of his savage mother.”
Anna clenched her fists around the newspapers. She had a mind to spit on the woman like she’d done to her, but decided against it. Besides, she wasn’t sure her aim would be of much benefit. People bumped around them and shouted, clamoring toward White Eagle.
“He may have avenged your father, but who will avenge his mother, who your father killed?” Song Bird, Yellow Leaf, and all those she loved flashed through her mind.
The woman stared Anna down, her eyes narrowed. They stood nose to nose, and suddenly Anna saw past the anger, past the trembling in her own body, and into the eyes of a woman, a frightened woman. Not that she was afraid of Anna, but afraid of the unknown. And Indians, whether Cheyenne or from another tribe, were unknown, and strange, different.
“Heathens.” The woman nudged her chin at Anna. “You dare stand here and defend heathens?”
Anna stepped back, unsure how to respond and unprepared for any kind of theological debate. She blurted out the first words that came to mind. “People! They are people.” Anna emphasized the word, realizing the significance of what she said. “They are God’s creation, and we should love them, not murder them and their children. Their scalps are not trophies to be won.” Anna swallowed. “You call yourself a Christian by calling them heathens, but if I were them, I would want nothing to do with the Christian faith. We are their murderers. We are destroying their race. Instead, we should try to win them over to Christ. And we can only do that by our love, His love, not by our hate.”
The woman made no response.
Anna turned and walked away, stunned by the words that just left her mouth. Where had they come from? She trembled, fighting back tears. And who was she to talk about God? She’d been angry for so many years, and yet God used White Eagle to reveal her answered prayers. All that time with White Eagle’s tribe could have been used for good. Not once did she teach any of them her faith. What little she had. She determined right then to grow. To grow in her faith and in her relationship with God. But how? How was she to do that?
God, please help me to do better.
Aimlessly, she followed the crowd as White Eagle started walking, ignoring the women who shouted their appreciation and reached out to touch him. It was as though no one existed as he strode down the walkway back toward the hotel.
Anna followed, and after walking a few blocks, the crowd dispersed. She thought about his hurt. The pain of being so alone in the world, the pain of losing both his parents. She wouldn’t even know where to begin to teach him about her faith, and she couldn’t help but think that it would be an impossible task. Besides, who was she to teach anyone anything?
He took off his hat and batted it against his leg, shaking off the snow. She spotted his leather band just before he placed the hat back on his head as he strode on toward the hotel. His strides were long and confident, like those of his Cheyenne brothers. Yet buried beneath his regal exterior beat a hurting heart.
He had risked his life to avenge his father. She thought of Mountain Jack, how he had told her story after story about his partner. If only she had known then that his partner ha
d been White Eagle’s father. Now she’d do anything to remember the details of every story she’d heard.
A couple passed by as Anna came upon an open carriage. “Miss van Stralen, is that you?”
She turned to see a young gentleman with a black handlebar mustache just stepping down from a carriage. The man she’d met on the train those many months ago. He tipped his hat.
“The name’s Steven Kane. Remember me?”
“Of course, yes, I remember you.” She smiled. How could she forget. He was the one who had encouraged her to get off near Julesburg. She imagined how different her life would have been had she taken his advice.
“I see you made it here all right.”
“Sure did,” she said, half smiling. “I’m finally home.” It felt good to say the word “home.” Though it didn’t carry with it that satisfying feeling she’d long expected to have.
She then noticed two older gentlemen in the carriage with him. They nodded and smiled.
“This is Mr. John Evans.” Mr. Kane motioned toward the smaller man nearest him.
“Evans? That name sounds familiar.”
Bright eyed Mr. Evans grinned. “I used to be the governor of Colorado, ma’am.”
“Oh! But that’s not all. You helped create the Union Pacific rail line from Cheyenne to Denver City. I read all about you.”
“I see you’re well informed. Where are you from?” Mr. Evans asked.
“Holland.”
“My, that’s quite a distance.” He smiled.
Mr. Kane motioned toward the stern-faced, barrel-chested gentleman next to him. “Allow me to introduce retired Colonel John M. Chivington. He’s visiting from Nebraska.”
The familiar name sent a cold chill down Anna’s spine. “Chivington?” Her voice quivered.
The man nodded, giving a faint smile beneath his neatly trimmed beard.