A baby. I had imagined myself as a warrior, a hunter, a husband, but never as a father. Now, suddenly, I could hardly wait to hold our child in my arms. Boy or girl, it didn’t matter.
Bending, I kissed Clarissa’s cheek. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For marrying me. For putting up with me.” I gave her a squeeze. “For being the mother of my child.”
She turned in my arms, lifting her face for my kiss, and it was a long time before we left that room.
* * *
My mother was delighted to hear the news of Clarissa’s pregnancy and immediately began making arrangements for one of the rooms in the mansion to be turned into a nursery so the baby would have a room of its own when we came to visit.
The Van Pattens were less than pleased, though they tried to hide it. Grace Van Patten looked at me as if I had defiled her daughter; Belmont looked as though he was going to be sick.
I saw the hurt in Clarissa’s eyes when her mother forced a smile and said, “how nice”. I saw the tears my wife blinked back when her father poured himself a stiff drink and downed it in one quick swallow.
That night, as I held Clarissa in my arms, I was suffused with guilt. But for me, Clarissa would have married some fine, upstanding young man who came from the same background she did, a man her parents would have welcomed with open arms.
And hard on the heels of that guilt came a surging tide of anger at their reaction. Clarissa was their only child. Why couldn’t they see how happy she was? Why couldn’t they be happy for her?
“It doesn’t matter, John,” she told me late one night. But it did matter. Among the Cheyenne, family was everything. Mothers, aunts, and grandmothers played an important role in the raising of a daughter; fathers, uncles and grandfathers all had a hand in the raising of a boy. No Cheyenne child ever lacked for a lap to sit in, a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear. Because a boy’s father was often away hunting or fighting, he spent much of his early years in the company of his grandfather.
“Please don’t let it bother you, John,” Clarissa urged. “You’re my family now, all the family I need. All I’ll ever need. I don’t care what my parents think. I know you’ll be a wonderful father.”
Holding Clarissa in my arms, I vowed that our child would lack for nothing, that, if necessary, I would be father, brother, uncle and grandfather.
* * *
We had planned to live with my mother for a while when we returned to New York, but now, with a baby due in mid-September, Clarissa wanted a home of her own, and so we bought a house, nothing so big or ostentatious as old man McKenna’s place, but a nice house, roomy and comfortable.
I was a man of property now, and it was a peculiar feeling. No Cheyenne warrior ever owned much more than his horse and his weapons. Strange, to look out over a piece of land and know it was mine. Indians did not own land, could not conceive of such a thing. We revered the earth as our Mother. You didn’t own your mother. You treated her with respect.
Nevertheless, I was a man of property. I owned a house that had four bedrooms, a large parlor, a dining room, kitchen, pantry, music room, a ballroom, a wine cellar filled with vintage wines. Here were quarters for servants, a stable and corrals.
I had closets full of expensive, well-tailored suits.
I owned a racehorse that had yet to be beat.
I made several investments, and they all paid off.
I had everything money could buy, and if I sometimes felt a strange emptiness inside, I shrugged it off and bought something new. But possessions, no matter how many or how costly, soon lost their appeal, while the emptiness remained.
As a warrior, I had been important to my tribe. My bow had brought down meat for my lodge, my rifle had brought death and destruction to our enemies. But here, in the city, my life seemed to have no meaning, no purpose. I had neither the desire nor the need to work, and so spent my days at the race track, or at one of the gaming houses. I was good at cards, especially five-card stud, and I rarely lost.
But gambling, too, soon lost its appeal. When you can afford to lose thousands of dollars on the turn of a card, much of the excitement of winning is gone.
Only my love for Clarissa remained unchanged. Lovely, fragile Clarissa. There was nothing I would not do for her, though I often wondered why she put up with me.
Now that I was master of my own home, I abandoned suits and tight collars in favor of slacks and loose-fitting shirts, and only wore shoes when I left the house, or when we had company.
Clarissa loved to play whist and we often had card parties. Personally, I found the game a little dull next to draw poker, but I played because Clarissa loved it so. At least once a week our house was full to bursting with couples playing cards. I did my best to be a proper host, and I guess I pulled it off pretty well.
Maybe too well. One woman, especially, made it a point to hang around me whenever our paths crossed. And as she was one of Clarissa’s best friends, out paths crossed often.
Virginia, her name was. She was married to a bank president, and they had everything money could buy. Everything but children and a happy marriage. Virginia’s husband, Parker, was a thin, sandy-haired man in his late forties. He openly adored Virginia, who was at least fifteen years his junior, but she belittled him at every opportunity, though not in his presence. It was obvious to everyone except Parker that she had married him for his money.
For all that Virginia Randall was a shrew, she was the most blatantly beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had luxurious red hair, bright blue eyes, skin the color of fresh cream, and a figure to drive a man to distraction. Truth be told, I was flattered by her attention. I was, after all, a healthy male, and no man in his right mind could ignore a dish as tempting as Virginia Randall.
She had made several suggestive remarks to me in the past, hinting that she wouldn’t say no if I asked the right question. So far, I had managed to avoid any entanglements without hurting her feelings. But one night my luck ran out.
It was a Friday night, and Clarissa had invited a houseful of people over to play whist. By midnight, our house smelled of cigar smoke and too many people who were more drunk than sober. Feeling the need for a little fresh air, I slipped out the back door and walked down to the stables.
It was a beautiful night. A full moon commanded the sky, making the stars pale by comparison. The sounds of music and laughter faded as I reached the stable, and I took a deep breath, enjoying the quiet. Here, there was only the fragrance of earth and grass, the voice of the wind whispering to the trees.
Leaning against the corral, I stared up at the sky, remembering how my father had always loved to sit under the stars long after the rest of the village was asleep.
A man needs time to be alone, he used to say. A time to listen to the wind, to be alone with his thoughts and feel the presence of the Great Spirit.
The soft squish of a footstep in the dewy grass told me I was no longer alone. Peering into the darkness, I saw Virginia Randall walking toward me, hips swaying provocatively. She was wearing a red silk dress that emphasized every curve. A ruby pendant, nestled in her cleavage, was certain to draw every man’s eye.
“Here you are,” she purred, sounding pleased. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She was carrying two drinks, and she handed one of them to me. “Straight scotch,” she remarked, raising her glass in a toast. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Thanks.” I took a long swallow, sighed as the smooth amber liquid slid down my throat, its warmth spreading through me like liquid sunlight.
“What are you doing out here, all alone?” She moved closer so that I could smell the perfume that clung to her hair and skin.
“Just waiting for you,” I answered dryly.
I was kidding, of course, but Virginia was a little drunk and she missed the sarcasm in my reply.
Tossing her glass over her shoulder, Virginia lunged forward, wrapped her arms around my waist, and planted a kiss on my cheek.
“Oh, John!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “I knew you cared. I just knew it!”
“Virginia, wait...”
“I knew you cared,” she said again, licking my ear. “I’ll tell Parker tonight.”
“Virginia, listen to me!” Taking her by the arms, I put her away from me.
“What’s the matter?” she asked anxiously. “Is someone coming?”
“No. Listen to me, dammit, I was only kidding.”
Her blue eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Kidding?” she repeated, her voice as rough as a cat’s tongue. “Kidding who? Not me. I’ve seen the way you look at me when Clarissa’s not around. You want me, not her.”
“You’re wrong,” I said quietly. “I’ve never wanted you. And as for looking, well, if you’re going to flaunt it like so much merchandise on display...” I shrugged. “You can’t blame a man for admiring a fine ass when he sees one.”
“You’ll be sorry for leading me on,” she hissed. “I’ll tell Clarissa you tried to rape me. I’ll tell everyone. And they’ll believe me, too, because it’ll be my word against that of a dirty half-breed.”
I stared at her in disbelief. I didn’t think Clarissa would believe a word of it, but Parker might, and he’d be forced to call me out and...
I swore softly as Virginia ripped the bodice of her dress, exposing one creamy white breast. With a triumphant smirk on her face, she shook out her long red hair until it fell in glorious disarray over her shoulders. And then she opened her mouth to scream.
That was when I slapped her. Hard.
“Don’t do it,” I warned, injecting a fine layer of steel beneath my softly spoken words. “Don’t even think about it.” Reaching out, I traced an imaginary line across her throat. “Or some morning you’ll wake up dead.”
Fear replaced the defiance in Virginia Randall’s eyes. “You wouldn’t!” she whispered, backing away from me.
“I would,” I assured her. “It would give me a great deal of pleasure to wear your fine red scalp on my belt.”
She stared at me, her eyes wide and scared. “You really are a savage,” she sobbed, and ran back to the house as if Satan himself were snapping at her heels.
I stared after her, knowing there would be hell to pay if she went crying to Parker.
I never did find out how she explained her torn dress to her husband, but she never said a word to Parker about what happened in the garden, or to anyone else, as far as I knew. And she never came near me again.
I never would have mentioned the incident to Clarissa. But she mentioned it to me that very night, in bed.
“I thought you handled Virginia quite well,” my darling wife remarked. “She’s always been a terrible flirt.” Clarissa laughed softly at my shocked expression. “I always told her she’d mess with the wrong man one day.”
I looked at her with my mouth hanging open. “Who told you about Virginia?”
“She’s not the only one who finds you irresistible, you know,” Clarissa murmured, her fingers trailing down my chest. “I was looking for you, too.”
“I wish you’d found me first.”
“I did,” Clarissa reminded me with a teasing grin.
“You know what I mean. Why didn’t you say something?”
“And miss the look on Virginia’s face when you threatened to scalp her? You must be kidding.” Clarissa gazed up at me, her eyes twinkling with merriment. “The two of you make a handsome couple.”
“Do we? Well, perhaps I made a mistake when I told her no.”
“Perhaps,” Clarissa said, smothering a grin. “I admit she’s very beautiful, but I didn’t think she was your type.”
“You’re my type, and you know it,” I said, returning her grin. “But she does have a fine looking fanny.”
“It’s fake.”
I stared at her, frowning. “Fake? What’s fake?”
“That fine derriere you so admire. It’s all padding.”
I snorted with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to check it out the next time she parades by.”
“You do, and I’ll slit your throat,” Clarissa warned. “Now, sir, I, personally, am bored to death with the subject of Virginia Randall.”
“A thousand pardons, my lady. What would you like to talk about now?”
Clarissa smothered a mock yawn with the back of her hand. “I grow weary of talking,” she murmured, running her fingertips up and down my thigh. “I find myself in the mood for action, not words.”
“You have only to command,” I replied, drawing her into my arms, “and I obey.”
“I love you,” Clarissa whispered. “I’ve loved you ever since the first time I saw you at that birthday party. You looked so lost and alone, standing off by yourself, and yet your face had such strength, such character, you made all the other boys I’d ever known seem childish and immature.”
She wrapped her arms around me and I felt the gentle swell of her belly press against me. Her breasts were slightly swollen, warm against my chest.
“I love you for all the things everyone else dislikes about you,” she said candidly. “The color of your skin, that hint of wildness that lurks in the back of your eyes, the fact that, after all this time, you still don’t quite fit in.”
Her fingertips made lazy circles across my back and shoulders. “Most of all, I love that streak of goodness that no one else takes the trouble to see.”
Her hand slid between us, lightly stroking my chest and belly, sliding slowly, seductively, lower. “And I love the way you make love to me.”
I held her tight, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. What had I ever done to deserve the love and trust of this woman? She made me feel like I was Sir Galahad, Prince Charming, and Apollo all rolled into one. She never belittled me, never made me feel inadequate or incompetent. She knew me for what I was, and loved me anyway.
I had thought my love for Clarissa had reached its peak the day she became my bride, but our love continued to grow day by day. It was a little frightening, the hold that golden-haired woman had on my heart.
“Clare...”
“Love me, Johnny,” she murmured.
“With every breath I take,” I promised.
As always, she came alive in my arms, welcoming my touch. Her lips were warm and sweet, her scent enveloped me, her touch tantalizing and tempting as she caressed me. I held her close, caressing her in return, reveling in the touch and the taste of her, the way she moaned softly as I stroked her secret places. And then, when I thought I would die from wanting her, she guided me home.
Chapter 11
Clarissa and I got our names and pictures in the newspapers a couple of times that year, once for hosting a visiting dignitary and his family, another time when we donated three thousand dollars to help build a new hospital for under-privileged kids.
Late that spring, Clarissa decided to redecorate the house and for a while there were painters and carpenters underfoot at all hours of the day and night. When they finished inside, she decided the outside needed painting, too. I thought it looked fine the way it was, but Clarissa said she had always wanted to live in a white house with yellow daffodil trim, and I agreed because I could deny her nothing that was in my power to give. And, I had to agree, it looked fine.
With the coming of summer, I often left the house after Clarissa fell asleep and went outside to spend the night on a bed of grass under a blanket of stars, preferring that to a soft mattress and four walls. Knowing Clarissa would be hurt, and that she might not understand my need to be outdoors, I always returned to our bed before dawn so that I would be there when she woke.
I guess I’d been sleeping in the backyard for about two weeks the night Clarissa came looking for me.
“Johnny, what on earth are you doing out here?” she asked, frowning.
I grinned sheepishly. “Sleeping.”
She came into my arms, her long silk nightgown
soft as a sigh against my naked chest, her hair shining like spun gold in the moonlight.
“Sleeping? Out here? Why?” She regarded me through narrowed eyes. “I don’t snore, do I?”
“No,” I said, laughing. “You don’t snore.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, honey. It’s kind of hard to explain, but sometimes I just have to get out of the house.”
She stared at me, and I saw the hurt in her eyes. “Don’t you like our house? I know you didn’t want me to redecorate, but...”
“It’s not the house.”
“Is it...is it me, then?” she asked in a small voice. “Have I done something to displease you?”
I groaned low in my throat, hating myself for hurting her. “No! Don’t ever think that. It’s just that sometimes I feel like the walls are closing in on me.”
“You still miss your old life, don’t you?” she said, bemused. “Even after all this time?”
“Yes.” I hated to admit it, knowing it would hurt her more, but I couldn’t lie to her.
“You won’t go back, will you, Johnny?” she asked anxiously. “You won’t go off and leave me?”
“Is that what you think, that I’d just ride out and leave you and the baby without a word?”
“No,” she said quickly. “But I’ve always known you miss your old life, and when I woke up and you were gone, I was afraid.”
“I’ll never leave you, Clare,” I whispered fervently. “Never.”
“Would you mind if I slept out here, with you?”
“Of course not.”
She made a soft contented sound as she settled her head on my shoulder, and we lay side by side on the blanket, gazing up at the stars as they wheeled across the sky.
Gazing at the heavens reminded me of a story Quiet Antelope had told me, of a young woman who was in her lodge, beading a pair of moccasins. While she worked, a small animal came inside and began to dance. Her brother warned her not to say anything, but the woman, charmed by the dancing animal, laughed out loud, and the animal fell into the fire. To the girl’s astonishment, it became a buffalo. “Follow me,” the buffalo said, and he took the girl away and made her his wife. The girl’s brother followed them. He fought with the buffalo, and shot an arrow to drive it away. The arrow he shot went into the air, and it became a tree. “Go!” the brother cried, and the girl climbed the tree. Her brother shot another arrow, and the tree grew taller, until it was as high as the heavens. And there the girl remained until this day, one of the seven sisters...
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