Savage Horizons

by Rosanne Bittner

  In his mind he saw Marie as she had looked when he left, like an abandoned fawn. He was sorry to hurt her, but he could do nothing about her childish love. Caleb was sure that after he was gone a while she would get over him. He wanted nothing to do with love again, even if he were to go back to the settlement. He just wanted his son and some peace in his life.

  Caleb knew he would consider returning to the Cherokee. They had all seemed lost when he had left, looking to him as though he had the skills to show them how to survive in the strange new land. At least if he lived with the Whitestones and helped them get their farm going he would have some purpose to his life, something to keep him busy and keep his mind off the things that brought him such deep pain.

  If it were not for little Tom, none of it would matter. But Caleb had to keep going for the boy’s sake, and that meant getting over Sarah. The way the Cherokee were living seemed like a happy medium, a world between white and Indian. That’s what he was, a man living on the border, torn between two worlds.

  As much as Caleb loved his people and their way of life, he had been in the white man’s world enough to know that James was probably right. There was no future at all for the wild Indians, and only a slim hope of survival for those who would choose to live the white man’s way. The survivors would be those who adjusted early and quickly. And Caleb realized that after all he had been through, he was a survivor. His son made that survival instinct stronger. He fell asleep thinking about little Tom, wondering what he looked like.

  The rising sun shone brightly on the side of the hill, waking Caleb with its orange glow. The sky was clear and blue, the air calm. The first blast of winter had moved further east across the vast land. Caleb sat up, throwing heavy snow from the buffalo robe. He stood up, sure he’d heard voices. Wading through the knee-deep snow, he made his way to the top of the small hill. He let out a whoop when he saw tipis amid a thick stand of trees that bordered a partially frozen river. There was no mistaking the paintings on the tipis; they were Cheyenne.

  He smiled with excitement, then hurried back to Tonoeva, half falling in the deep snow, laughing at himself for being so close to the village and not even knowing it.

  It was a huge settlement, surely the greatest share of Cheyenne anywhere around. He picked up his robe and threw it over the horse, then climbed onto the animal. Tonoeva tossed her head, her nostrils flaring as she realized there were horses not far away. She turned willingly at his command and pushed her way through the deep snow toward the village.

  Caleb called out in Cheyenne when he drew close, laughing when he saw some familiar faces as women stood up from campfires and men came out from the tipis. Snowdrifts piled gracefully in odd shapes over the sides of some of the tipis, and the trees were weighted down with snow. Dogs ran and barked, snow flying over their bodies as they came out to chase him. Caleb put up his hand in a sign of peace and asked the first woman he saw if she knew Three Feathers and where he could find him.

  The woman shook her head, her brown eyes looking tired. “Three Feathers died,” she told him in Cheyenne. “There has been much disease. Many have died.”

  Caleb’s heart tightened. “When?”

  “Three, four moons ago.”

  “Is this Three Feathers’ band?”

  The woman nodded. Others gathered closer, some of them recognizing him.

  “Blue Hawk! It is Blue Hawk, the great warrior who killed many Crow!”

  “My son,” Caleb asked the woman, ignoring the others. “I left him with my aunt, Sweet Seed Woman. Is she here? Are they all right?”

  The woman shook her head. “Sweet Seed Woman is dead, too. And her sister. Buffalo Man gave your son to Many Seeds, wife of Gray Dog. All have wondered if you would return to—”

  “Take me to Many Seeds,” he interrupted as relief washed over him. Little Tom was alive. He had a son and he was alive. It seemed a good sign to Caleb, that there was a reason to go on living after all.

  He dismounted, walking with Tonoeva and following the woman, who led him far into the village to a large tipi painted with dogs. She rattled the buffalo hooves that hung at the entrance, then waited with an impatient Caleb until a man pushed aside the flap and stepped outside. He stared at Caleb a moment, then nodded, and the woman left discreetly.

  “So, Blue Hawk, finally you have come for your son. He is like a son to us now.”

  Caleb’s eyes were watery. “I would have come much sooner, but I was wounded by white men and I was many moons recovering.”

  Gray Dog looked him over. He was a stern, discerning man, with a long sharp nose and thin lips, a man who seldom smiled, even when he felt like it. “Your son is playing a game with my own two sons. Come.”

  Caleb eagerly ducked inside. The atmosphere was warm and loving. A woman sat to one side mending some moccasins, and when she saw Caleb her face fell. She knew who it was and why he had come, but she loved little Tom and would hate to see him leave. How could anyone not love him? He was plump and beautiful, with a ready, dimpled smile and sparkling brown eyes that could charm prized eagle feathers off the proudest warrior. He was a sweet, obedient child, and Caleb knew instantly which child was his, even though one of the others was nearly the same age. In the sparkling eyes of his son he could see Walking Grass.

  The likeness stabbed him like a sword, and the memory of her death overwhelmed him. He hurried over to Tom and lifted the boy, hugging him desperately, not caring if Gray Dog and his wife knew he was crying. How could he not cry? He had lost so much, yet here was someone he still had, a part of him that lived and breathed. All else was gone, even Three Feathers and Sweet Seed Woman. He would never see them again. And he knew in that instant, as he held his son in the middle of a Cheyenne camp in the wilds of the Unorganized Territory, what he must do. He could not stay here. It had all changed too much, or perhaps it was he who had changed too much. Caleb would take his child to the Canadian River, to the Cherokee settlement.

  He rubbed his face against the velvet softness of his son’s cheek, breathed deeply of the boy’s sweet scent, ran his hand over the sleek gloss of the boy’s blue-black hair. How could there have been a time when he did not want this child? How could he have been full of that much hatred and revenge, that he would leave this son to others? He had always thought it would hurt too much to be near the child–but now as he held him, he realized what a healing effect the boy had on him. If only Sarah could…

  Oh, the hurt of it! They were going to live together in a little cabin, and Sarah was going to be a mother to little Tom. What a wonderful mother she would have made! But there was no Sarah now–and no Walking Grass. Sometimes it seemed he had no past at all. The only proof was this precious little boy, who pulled back and looked at him now with puckered lips and a scowl, looking as if he were trying to determine just who this man was who had so suddenly picked him up and interrupted his game.

  “Father,” Gray Dog told the boy in the Cheyenne tongue. “He speaks no English,” the man told Caleb.

  Caleb smiled broadly, tears on his cheeks. “I’ll teach him.”

  Tom traced a fat brown finger along the scar on Caleb’s cheek. “Ne-hoeehe?”

  Caleb laughed lightly and kissed the boy’s chubby cheek. “Ai, little one. I am your father.”

  * * *

  Sarah turned away as Byron walked into the bedroom. She was glad that she was big with child now, for it meant he would leave her alone. The first few months after arriving in Washington had been hell, and she knew she could not survive a lifetime with this man. She was determined to divorce him as soon as the baby was born. It would be easy enough to prove his infidelity. After all, everyone knew that as soon as her condition made her undesirable Byron Clawson had started seeing other women of their social circle openly. It mattered little to her, for it only gave her grounds to leave him as soon as she could. He had even begun frequenting brothels, bragging about how much the whores looked forward to his visits and how she could benefit by taking lessons from them
.

  Sarah wondered how she had managed to stay sane this long. If not for the child she could not have done it. She trembled at the memory of his clammy hands, the way he deliberately took his time with her, drawing out her agony, knowing full well she detested his touch. She had made a bargain and was living in hell for it. But she kept to her part of the agreement, despite the fact that she had never enjoyed even being with Byron Clawson, and being bedded by him was worse than she had imagined. He always grinned while he took her in vile sex acts, his small penis darting into her in quick jabs. She wondered what the other women he escorted around town would do if they knew he was only half a man. She knew now that his bragging about all his experience with women had been lies. He didn’t know the first thing about how to please a woman, and even if he had, he was not man enough to follow through.

  When he sat on the bed and began removing his clothes she could smell the liquor on him. His drinking had increased since their marriage, but it did not seem to affect his social image. How clever he was at putting on a refined facade. None of his colleagues seemed to mind that he was a bit of a ladies’ man. After all, his wife was big with child, and a man had his needs.

  His drinking hadn’t seemed to affect his career, either. Byron was political and legal advisor to a senator, with political ambitions of his own, and in that capacity he was successful. But none of it impressed Sarah. She longed for the life she could have had with Caleb, a little cabin in a peaceful land, lying in a deep feather mattress with Caleb Sax beside her, curled up against his virile body, safe in his strong arms. How could two men be so different? Wanting to live had been a delicate choice for her, for losing Caleb was like losing her life’s blood. There was only the baby now.

  Byron eased into bed beside her and she feigned sleep, then chilled when he pressed against her back, reaching around and fumbling with her breast. What was he doing? He had promised to leave her alone now that she was so big. He began kissing her shoulder and neck, his hand moving down to pull up her gown. Drunk! The fool was drunk and wanted her!

  She moved farther away. “You’ve been with the whores. I can smell their perfume,” she told him. “Leave me alone.”

  He grabbed her arm, jerking her onto her back and crawling on top of her swollen stomach.

  “I don’t want the whores. I want my lovely wife.” His breath nauseated her.

  “Get off of me,” she said. “You’ll hurt the baby!”

  “So what? It’s not my brat. And who are you to speak against whores, Mrs. Byron Clawson? You’re a whore yourself, spreading your legs for that Indian scum.”

  She pushed him and tried to get out from under him, but he suddenly punched her in the jaw. Her heart raced with panic. He had beat her before, but he had not touched her since she was so big. All she could think of was the baby.

  He began ripping her gown and slapped her across her cheek. Sarah tasted blood in her moth and struggled against him in a daze, feeling her gown torn free. His cold hands moved over her swollen stomach, terrorizing her as he pushed.

  “Bastard,” he sneered. “Bastard seed! Why doesn’t the thing come so I can have my woman back?” He pushed harder and she screamed, kicking at him and turning to get away, but he grabbed her and slammed her back onto the bed. “Get the thing born, woman! I’m sick of looking at your fat belly and knowing it belongs to that half-breed son of a bitch!”

  “Leave me alone,” she pleaded. “I won’t fight you, Byron, if you don’t hurt me.”

  He laughed like a madman. “Won’t fight me?” He rose and jerked her off the bed, then slapped her face again, sending her flying across the room. Her naked body crashed against a dresser and she fell to the floor. Byron looked at her for a moment in the dim light of an oil lamp, always left burning low.

  “You don’t need to worry about fighting me, Mrs. Clawson. I don’t want your body with its bloated belly anyway.”

  He stumbled to the door, taking a robe from a hook and pulling it on. When he flung open the door a maid gasped and darted back. Byron grinned. “Hello, Tilly. Did you enjoy listening?”

  The young girl just blinked. He stood there with his robe open, so drunk he didn’t even realize he was fully exposed. He stepped closer. “There’s still extra pay in it if I can come see you in your room later,” he said, leering drunkenly.

  She straightened, looking him over. He was her boss and paid well but she was afraid of him. He was a cruel man. The only reason Tilly stayed was because she felt sorry for Mrs. Clawson.

  “I’ll think about it, sir,” she said, hoping she sounded convincing. “But maybe I’d better see to Mrs. Clawson first.”

  He shrugged. “Go ahead. I’m going to get another drink.”

  He stumbled down the stairs of the elegant brownstone he had purchased, running his hand along the polished walnut railing. He went to the buffet and poured himself a drink, waiting for Tilly. Moments later she came hurrying down the stairs.

  “Mr. Clawson, you’d better send for the doctor! Your wife is having her baby.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Really? How nice for her.” He swallowed the drink. “Send the stable boy.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want me to go up and stay with her once I’ve done that, sir?”

  Byron stared at the bedroom door at the top of the stairs. “No. Let her suffer alone until the doctor comes.”

  Tilly frowned. After all, it was the man’s own child. “Aren’t—aren’t you going to sit with her, sir?”

  He glared at her strangely. “You are perfectly aware that I just beat the hell out of my wife. Why would I want to sit with her? For reasons of my own I don’t care if the child lives or dies—or my wife, for that matter. I’m sure you’ll understand the need to keep our secrets. You do understand what will happen if you say a word of this to anyone?”

  She paled. “I understand.”

  “Good. Now go and get the damn stable boy. And make sure he gets Dr. Zajac.”

  “Yes, sir.” She hurried away. Byron looked up the stairs again, smiling when he heard a scream. He hoped she suffered plenty delivering the bastard.

  The pain was beyond anything Sarah had expected. Perhaps if she had not been beaten first, perhaps if the labor had not been forced by Byron’s abuse the delivery would not have been so miserable. The labor lingered for hours, and the doctor did not seem to be helping. She had never liked this doctor, but he was the one Byron insisted she have, claiming he was one of the best.

  She was consumed by clawing pains, helpless to stop what would happen. The doctor left for a moment, and she managed to turn on her side, moving her hand under the mattress. Sarah retrieved the blue quill necklace she kept hidden there, where she could take it out and cling to it in the night, drawing on its power for courage and strength. She rolled onto her back again, gasping as another contraction began. She clung to the necklace, wishing Caleb could be with her. If he were, he would be right by her side, coaching her, helping her, loving her, anxious to see his child.

  “I’m… doing it for you,” she whispered.

  The door opened and she moved the necklace under the blankets, still clinging to it. The doctor came back to the bed. “I have a little something for the pain,” he said. “The baby will come on its own now. You don’t have to be fully awake if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want anything.” She groaned. “I want to be awake.”

  “Now, now. I insist you take it. I might have to turn the baby, Mrs. Clawson. I think it might be breech.”

  “Breech?” She whimpered, already weak from hours of labor and the shock of Byron’s attack. “Don’t let anything happen to my baby!”

  “Nothing is going to happen. Come now. Take the medicine.” He poured some into a small glass and held her head, putting it to her lips and coaxing her to drink the milky liquid. Sarah was too weak to object. The doctor studied her bruised and battered face. “That’s quite a fall you took, Mrs. Clawson. I’m sure that’s what brought this on.”

&nb
sp; “Fall?” She started to tell him she had not fallen, that Byron had beaten her. But suddenly her mouth would not work, and then the room was spinning. Voices sounded far away. She heard screams, but had no idea they were her own. She heard Byron’s voice then. She didn’t want Byron there.

  “What’s this?” A damn Indian necklace! I’ll bet it was his!”

  Sarah wanted to protest when Byron tore the necklace from her hand, but she was powerless.

  Her legs were parted and she felt strange movements through her abdomen… hands, words, screams, a baby’s cry … then all was blackness. She had no idea how long she lay there before awakening to a quiet room, clean and covered, the sun lighting up one wall. She was so weak that just opening her eyes seemed an effort. The first thing she saw was the doctor.

  “Baby,” she moaned.

  Dr. Zajac was instantly at her bedside. “Well now, Mrs. Clawson, I was beginning to wonder if you would ever wake up.”

  She stared at him with dull green eyes, feeling strangely heavy. She spoke with slurred words. “Baby,” she repeated. “My baby.”

  The man frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Clawson. I’m afraid I couldn’t save her.”

  What did he mean? she wondered.

  “It was a little girl, Mrs. Clawson. She lived only seconds before turning blue and choking to death. Who knows what causes these things? If we knew we could save so many.”

  Sarah made a choking sound in an effort to scream. It couldn’t be true. How could she have lost Caleb’s baby? It was all she had to keep her going. Sarah felt as if what little was left of her heart was being crushed. “Baby,” she wailed.

  “Calm down, Mrs. Clawson. I’m so sorry. I did my best. But you can have more children.”

  She didn’t want more. She wanted Caleb’s baby.

  The door opened and Byron came into the room. Byron. It was his fault. He killed the baby, killed it just the same as if he had put a gun to its head. He saw the look in her eyes and moved closer.