Daughter of the Sword

by Jeanne Williams

  “There are charred posts at the corners, and we’ll fence someday if we get neighbors with livestock. They might help us put in and tend an Osage orange hedge. If everybody cut and hauled posts made from river trees, it’d be terrible, because there’s not much wood.”

  She looked across the vast, shimmering ocean of grass, rippling in the breeze, changing color like velvet according to which way it was touched: now rose, now russet, now green. “I love it like this,” she said, “open and free. The claims next to us are owned by people who live in town and do just enough to keep the claims in force. But when the troubles quiet down they’ll start farming or sell to someone who will. And I suppose there’ll be some kind of cheap, easily raised fence before too long, now that settlers are coming out where there’s neither stone nor wood.”

  “The plains Indians are going to hate that,” said Dane. “Their men, at least, have lived a life most whites would regard as leisure—hunting, fighting more in the spirit of winning tournament honors than to wipe out an enemy.” He gave a wry laugh. “When whites call Indians lazy, I suspect they’re jealous.”

  “Indian women aren’t lazy, however you look at it,” retorted Deborah. “They gather wild foods, prepare game, tan hides, and make tipis and clothing.”

  “Yes, most of what whites call work is beneath a warrior’s dignity,” teased Dane. “Excellent system, for males. But now the white man’s trying to saddle the warrior with his own humdrum workaday habits like a little boy who doesn’t want his friends to play if he can’t.”

  The comparison was apt, but Deborah didn’t smile. She feared it would be a long time, and much blood would be shed, before white and red man lived peacefully, longer, probably, than it would take for the North and the South to settle their quarrels.

  “You were happy a few minutes ago,” Dane said, riding closer, “happier than I’ve ever seen you. What’s made you sad?”

  She made a helpless gesture. “I wish the prairie would never be fenced, yet I helped plant the hedge around our wheat. I wish the Indians could keep their hunting grounds and ways, but I don’t want to get scalped. We’ve had border war in Kansas ever since the Territory opened, and everyone seems to think the whole country’s going to explode. Thos may go off with that horrible old John Brown!” She swallowed hard and blinked. “With all this, I’m ashamed to be happy!”

  They were nearing the Kaw, the fringe of cottonwood, walnut, oak, and willow making a green promise twisting through the grasslands. Dane said nothing but looked straight ahead. Was he angry? Put off because she was worried about the storms threatening her world?

  He couldn’t understand. He was an Englishman, here to paint and travel. But somehow it was important that he did know how she felt. It hurt to feel separated from him, cut off. They reached some massive cottonwoods, their trunks pale, leaves rustling, their silvery undersides contrasting with the fresh shine of the tops. Dane swung down, looped his reins over a limb, and strode up to Deborah.

  “Get down.” He raised his arms and lifted her to the soft, leaf-mulched earth, kept hold of her wrist while he tied the mare. “Now,” he said grimly, walking Deborah into the murmuring shade, “you just said a despicable thing—that you’re ashamed to be happy!”

  “Despicable?”

  “Yes. That sort of talk’s for long-faced, self-flagellating people who taint the joy and strength of the stream of life because of its whirlpools and rapids, its terrors and griefs. There’ll be times enough that you must weep, be sad, be angry. But as surely, you must be happy when you can, keep a high heart.”

  “But—”

  “Not to delight in good things is to despair, Deborah.” He took both her hands, turning her to face him. “Even as poor a Christian as I am knows that despair is a sin.”

  Weak at the pulsing flame traveling from his hands through her, Deborah tried to draw away, but he held her with tender strength, shifting one hand to tilt up her face so that his eyes captured her as relentlessly as his grasp.

  “I was in despair when we met, Deborah—deep in sin. You gave me joy and hope. Can you give me more? Can you give me love?”

  “Love?” Her mind whirled. “But I—I thought you—Melissa—”

  “Mrs. Eden?” He looked startled, then laughed. “Because she trapped me into taking her to the literary society? You funny darling!”

  “But—Chica! The blue saddle blanket!”

  “What strange fancies you get!” He was now astonished. “You didn’t know Chica was yours?”

  “How should I?” she said crossly, still disbelieving. She must be dreaming or in a fever or—no, he wouldn’t play this cruel a joke! “You never came after Rolf was well enough to go back to Lawrence, and even when you were visiting, you never paid any attention to me!”

  His eyes danced like sunlight on deep water. “That’s all you know about it! I paid attention to very little else! But you never looked at me if you could help it. You treated me, in fact, as if I had the plague!”

  She could only stare at him, speechless. His long fingers caressed her face. “Rolf was—is—much taken with you. At twenty-two, he’s much nearer your age. I’m twenty-eight and feel twice that. If you were going to care for him, I didn’t want to compete.”

  “That was mouse-spirited!”

  “But practical.” He smiled ruefully. “I was all but betrothed to a young lady before I was posted to the Crimea. Rolf gallantly kept her company during my absence, and the upshot was that she fell in love with him. Rolf was genuinely dismayed, but he claimed he’d done nothing to make him obligated to offer to marry her after she broke off with me. The lesson I learned was to be sure any woman I was serious about first had a generous exposure to my dashing younger brother.”

  “I’ve had it.” More than you know! “Rolf is—disturbing. But I couldn’t love him in a thousand years. I think you should court where you’re minded, not hold back for him!”

  Dane’s face turned somber. “I’ve no wish to kill my brother. Yet if you were mine and he tried to win you, I know I would. So I gave him his chance first, for all our sakes.”

  Deborah stiffened, remembering. “You told him your father would stop his money if he married me.”

  “So he would. I thought you, as well as Rolf, should know that.”

  Insulted, Deborah tried to wrench free; she kicked at Dane’s shins. “You think I’d care about that if I loved him?” She choked, struggling in fury.

  “I had to be sure.”

  Sudden realization chilled her. She stopped fighting and stared at him in a way that brought puzzled concern to his face. “You can’t marry me, either,” she said. “So what are you asking beneath all the fine words? That I should be your—” She hunted for a word, then remembered it from the Bible. “Your harlot—is that what you want?”

  He winced as if she’d stabbed him. Anger flared in his eyes. “We’ve talked too much!”

  Lowering his head, he took her mouth with his, hard, sweetly bruising, holding her against him so that the lean harshness of his body burned against her, crushed her breasts. She couldn’t fight; he was possessing her with his hunger, dominating her completely. She had no strength at all. It was like being battered and beaten by a storm, but the most dangerous overwhelming crest of that tumult was building within herself. She gave a little sob as her mouth softened, as her bones gave way, and she was helpless in his arms.

  His lips were still urgent, but now they moved caressingly along her throat and eyelids, then came again to her mouth, which received him tremblingly.

  “Oh, my love!” he said against the pulse of her throat. “My dear darling! Harlot, indeed! Where’d you learn such a word?”

  “It’s in the Bible,” she said indignantly, striving too late to regain her balance and dignity. “A great many times! Rahab and—”

  “Never mind.” He smothered her words with a kiss, then drew back to smooth the line of her jaw and chin with his fingers. “I really don’t care about those ancient ladi
es of ill repute! When can we be married?”

  “Married?” she echoed. “But—you told Rolf—your father won’t like it!”

  “He will when he meets you. Besides, I’m not dependent on him. If he disowns me, I can’t offer you the manor and luxury, but from my mother I’ve a house in Cornwall where we could live quite comfortably on what my paintings and books bring in.”

  “Cornwall?” she said blankly.

  “If you don’t like it there, we can find a tenant or sell that place. I think you’d love Devon or Wales.” At her sound of protest, he laid his fingers lightly on her mouth. “Now don’t think I’m proposing without your parents’ blessing! I called on them yesterday at the shop and asked if I might give you the mare and ask you to be my wife.”

  “Wife?” Could it be true?

  He laughed softly, punctuating his words with kisses. “Wife! What an ugly, stout, nonsensical word for what you’ll be to me! Darling, love, sweetheart, dearest—all very well, but not enough!” His tone roughened. “You’re those to me, Deborah, and more. You’re my woman.”

  He would have kissed her again, but she put her hand against his chest. “I love you, Dane. But I can’t go to Cornwall—or Devon or Wales.”

  “You’d prefer London?” He sounded a little disappointed but shrugged it away. “We can manage, though I’d hope you’d have enough of it in a few years.” He bent towards her again.

  Averting her face, she spoke quickly before his arms and mouth could rob her of control and reason. “I can’t leave my country, Dane!”

  He frowned, then smiled compassionately. “Well, I can see that leaving your family, going to a strange land, would be alarming. Maybe you’d like to go back to New Hampshire?”

  She shook her head. Why was it taking so long for him to understand? Why was he offering every accommodation except what was, for her, necessity? Surely, if he’d let her wishes govern so much, he’d honor, the important one. It seemed reasonable enough, yet the muscles of her throat were taut, harshening her voice.

  “I have to stay in Kansas, Dane—till the border wrangling’s over and people like Judith don’t need our help.”

  His fingers gripped like steel. “Don’t be foolish, Deborah. Your going won’t make any real difference, except to us. Your parents were relieved to think I’d be taking you away. When they came here, they never envisioned how long the struggle would last or what dangers you’d be exposed to. They won’t blame you for going.”

  “I’d blame myself. I’d be worried about them all the time. I’d feel like a coward—a—a deserter!”

  His lips twitched. “My love, you’re not in the army!”

  “I’m doing something I believe in. I have to see it through.”

  He dropped her hands, stepping back, a nerve in his lean cheek twitching. “That’s more important than marrying me?”

  “Oh, Dane! Not more important! But it’s something I have to do before I can think about myself.”

  He didn’t answer, but his eyes were incredulous. The distance between them after their closeness seemed very great. Using her courage and love to make her bold, she stretched out her hands. “Dane, couldn’t you live here? It shouldn’t be years and years. And if you will, then when things are all right, I promise I’ll live with you in Cornwall or anywhere!”

  He took her hands and kissed them, held them to his face, clearly fighting an inward battle. At last he straightened up, releasing her. “Deborah, it’d be so easy to say yes. But I want to get you out of this, away from bushwackers and men like Jed, away from where you’ll need that Bowie! You can’t imagine how I hate the idea of you with that border ruffian’s weapon! I know this place and these times have forced you to it. But do you think I’d let my wife expose herself like that—escort runaways, defy men who love looting and murder?”

  “Maybe you’re afraid you’d have to fight again!” It wasn’t fair, but his disgust at her Bowie, the hint that he found her unwomanly, stung deeply. The stricken look on his face pierced to her heart, made her say contritely, “Dane! Dane, please! I didn’t mean that!”

  “But you would, my dear.” He smiled crookedly. “You’re full of martial zeal. I’m convinced no war is worth its carnage.” He considered her carefully. “Do you mean that if I married you and we stayed in Kansas, you’d insist on continuing with the underground? Oh, yes—I know your farm’s a station. Judith’s not the first fugitive you’ve hidden.”

  Deborah’s chin trembled, but she lifted it. “Of course I would! What use would there be in my staying, otherwise?”

  He nodded as if all the parts and pieces had come together. “Very well, my darling. It seems you know your mind.”

  He led her back to the horses, then was starting to lift her to the saddle when his arms tightened and he brought her against him and kissed her mouth till she could only cling to him, drawing him closer, opening to him like a flower ravished by the sun’s warmth. He groaned. Looking up at him, she saw his eyes were blazing. Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her a small distance and sank down with her on a grassy bank, crushing wild blossoms. “I’ll have this much of you!” he said thickly, and he took her lips again.

  She didn’t know what was happening; she didn’t care. She only wanted more—all of him, the touch and taste and feel. When his tongue touched hers, she thrust back, welcomed his probing, pressed savagely against him, willing him to somehow soothe the building, tormenting flame flickering through her.

  He undid the buttons of her dress, then fondled her breasts. She caught in her breath, moaning. His mouth brushed the straining rigid nipples, closed on first one, then the other, drawing out some of the pain, softening her urgency so that the fire became a honey melting, a soft, deep yearning which he’d satisfy. He knew how. She had to have him—this one time. It was a sin, but they loved each other; he’d wanted to marry her.…

  Abruptly, he sat up. “Goddamn it to hell!”

  She opened startled eyes and pushed up on one elbow. “Dane—”

  “No!” Roughly, he buttoned her dress, then pulled her to her feet. “Not till I know we can marry! Damn it, I love you! Your parents trust me!”

  This time he almost flung her into the saddle.

  viii

  She had never been happier than when riding toward the river with Dane, and never more disappointed, ragingly frustrated, than when riding back. She wanted to weep, strike out at something, cry that it wasn’t fair, that it was too cruel, too wretched to be offered the man she loved but to be compelled to deny him and herself because of his rigidity.

  And her own. Even in her furious grief, she had to admit there was some validity to his view. Hopelessly trapped between her love, the ecstasy of being Dane’s cherished, protected, passionately loved and fulfilled woman, and the sure knowledge it would all sour if she left her duty, abandoned her family, Deborah writhed inwardly.

  How could he be so stubborn?

  She ground her teeth. He hadn’t even made love to her while they could both plead being carried away! He thought her a puritan, but when it came to self-righteousness, he had to be second only to butchering old John Brown!

  Feeling slashed and raw, Deborah saw the waving grass through a haze of tears, fought desperately to keep her back straight and not snuffle. How did he feel? His broad shoulders were erect and his face was stonily impassive: stiff, upper-lipped British officer.

  Oh, damn him! Why had he let her know he loved her if he was going to make impossible conditions? Forlornly, she knew that many women would’ve been glad to get away from Kansas, the drudgery of a farm, the ever-present threat of violence. No use in blaming him for thinking she’d jump at the chance to leave.

  Through a blur of tears, she saw his dear, dark head; she longed to cradle it against her and whisper that nothing mattered except their love.…

  Only it did.

  “Shall we go by the buffalo wallow?” he asked in an expressionless tone.

  Unable to speak, she shook her head. She
wanted only to be home, to give way to the storm of weeping building within her.

  They rode for a long time in silence. At last he said, “I’m going to paint my way west, probably spend the winter in California. By the time I come back in the spring, things may have changed. Unless you forbid me, Deborah, I’ll ask you again to come with me.”

  Her heart sank at the thought of his leaving but rose because at least he wasn’t definitely, positively putting her out of his life—though it might be better for them both if he did.

  “Things may change by spring,” she said tersely, “but it’ll probably be for the worse.”

  He gave her an almost humorous glance. “And I thought Americans were optimistic!”

  “In the long run, yes, but I don’t see how anyone can expect anything but trouble for the next few years.”

  His gaze touched her, lingered. The longing between them was almost palpable. How could he go away? Life would be all one color without him, the dry, sere, yellow-brown of the prairie in autumn, the frigid white of winter. But if he came in the spring, oh, then she would live again! For that little while. It was something to hold on to, however doomed. Something might happen. Peace might be nearer.

  Or—she scarcely dared think it even to herself, yet she couldn’t keep from it—Dane might decide to live in the Territory.

  “Whatever happens,” he promised, “I’ll see you in the spring.”

  Her scalp prickled at that. To make such a vow seemed an almost sacrilegious daring of fate. He was making a long, hazardous journey; she lived in a wild land in wild times. “Don’t promise,” she said hastily, as if trying to avert a curse. “Just come if you can—if you still want to—”

  “Oh, my love,” he said, “if I were in my grave, I’d still want to!”

  As they rode up to the stable, Thos came out and offered to see to the horses, but Dane said he was riding on to Lawrence. “You can take care of your sister’s horse, though,” he said, swinging down and lifting Deborah lightly to the ground.

  “I can’t keep her!” Deborah protested.