Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03]

  “The apostle Paul said that there is neither Jew nor Greek in God’s eyes. Jesus Himself once reminded the Pharisees that being children of Abraham didn’t mean a thing if they didn’t have a heart for God. In fact—” He broke off. Shook his head. “Son, I don’t care if you’re Sicilian or Irish or a blue-blooded direct descendent of King George—” He broke off, chuckling. “And that concludes today’s sermon.”

  When he continued, the colonel’s tone was warm with something Noah hoped meant possible friendship. “You were kind to my sister when she sorely needed kindness. Mrs. Riley can’t say enough good things about you. I can see that you were obviously a devoted son, and you’ve earned the admiration of the Rhodes family in record time. That’s enough for me.” He motioned to the coffee tray. “Now settle back and have another biscuit.”

  Noah relaxed. While he ate, he told the colonel more about Ma’s quilt. “She began working on it before I started school. At some point, she began to tell stories while she embroidered over the lines creating all the symbols and figures scattered about. I’d point to something—a wagon train or a tepee, for instance—and she’d tell me a story about it. That was the beginning of my fascination with the West.” He paused. “When I ran off from my cousin’s, the quilt was the only thing I took with me. I rolled it up and tied it shut with a piece of rope—imitating a soldier’s bedroll, I suppose.”

  The colonel nodded understanding. “You’d be surprised if I told you about some of the things soldiers keep tucked in pockets or saddlebags just to remind them of home. Everything from once-perfumed lace-edged hankies to gold lockets to a pebble from a creek bed in Germany.” He paused. “Women may be the keepers of hearth and home, but we men have ties just as strong as they.” He pointed behind him at the portrait of him and his sister. “That’s all I have of my family—” He put his hand on the Bible on his desk. “That, and this. My uncle carried it with him from Manassas to Appomattox. I wouldn’t take anything for either that portrait or this Bible.”

  He understands. Noah went on. “Ma didn’t know where Pa was buried. That always bothered her. It bothered her a great deal.” He swallowed. “I’m thinking of staying out here for a while after I finish up at the Long Pine Chautauqua. I’d like to see Fort Kearny for myself. See if I can find the Powder River and Turkey Creek.”

  The colonel nodded. “If you’ll move this tray over onto that chair in the corner, I’ll show you something.” While Noah moved the tray, the colonel retrieved a map from the other desk. Unrolling it atop his desk, he weighed down each of the four corners—one with a paperweight, another with the inkwell from the desk set, and then the desk set itself. The small Bible was placed over the remaining corner. The colonel pointed to a place on the map. “Turkey Creek,” he said and looked up at Noah. “Tell me what you know about it.”

  Noah thought for a moment before answering, trying to remember everything Ma had ever said. “Shooting. Indians. Being terrified. And being rescued by the army. Was that the Second Nebraska? Was it you?”

  The colonel shrugged. He pointed to another point on the map. Noah leaned close. Powder River.

  “And your father?” the colonel asked. “Tell me what you know about him.”

  “Nothing of his background. Ma said he didn’t talk about it. But he gave his life to save us. Once, when I was young—” He told the colonel about trying to lighten his skin. “I’d never seen her so angry. ‘One of the best men to ever walk the earth.’ That’s what she said about Pa.”

  The colonel was looking down at the map as he said, “Your mother gave you her name. She merely dropped out the letter r.”

  It wasn’t a question. Noah’s pulse quickened. “Yes. That’s right. Norah Shaw. You knew her? You really knew her?”

  The older man nodded. “I was fairly certain when I first met you. But I wanted to be sure. And everything you’ve told me confirms it. She was a lovely woman. Kind, tenderhearted. Unforgettable, for many reasons. There was a grace about her—an ability to be at peace in spite of her considerable suffering. It impressed many who crossed her path, including me. Her quiet faith during the days following Turkey Creek spoke to many very roughshod hearts.

  “God also used her during her time at Fort Kearny—just as surely as He uses men like Reverend Talmage.” The colonel paused. “Now that I think about it, she would have enjoyed the reverend’s sermon yesterday.” He quoted Talmage’s text. “‘Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion.’”

  Noah nodded. “Yes. I thought exactly that when the reverend quoted that verse. Ma stitched stars on the quilt. Stars and campfires and wagon wheels. Tepees and wolves. An elk—or maybe a deer. And a bear. Just outlines in red thread. But they illustrated Ma’s stories, and they set my mind to imagining.” He gave a soft laugh. “She always encouraged my imagination. When my voice changed—I was young when that happened, and you can imagine the teasing it invited at school—she just said she liked my ‘growly voice.’ She even called me her ‘Little Bear’ sometimes.”

  Again, some indiscernible emotion flitted across the colonel’s face. Clearing his throat, he rerolled the map and returned it to the other desk as he said, “Perhaps you’d want to read what I’ve written about the incidents at Turkey Creek and the Powder River.”

  “You’d allow me to do that?”

  “If you still want to—after we talk a bit more.” The colonel motioned for Noah to sit back down. Then he crossed the room and took one of the portraits of himself down off the wall. “The name Leshario.” He cleared his throat. “I think it has far greater significance than you’ve ever realized.” He handed the portrait to Noah. “This was made when I accompanied an Indian delegation to Washington about twenty years ago. That’s the White House in the background. I’m on the far left.” He put his hand on Noah’s shoulder.

  Noah looked down at Colonel Barton. He was dressed in full military regalia. Those buttons would have glimmered in the sun. And that sword. Impressive. And then—then Noah saw the real reason the colonel had just handed him the portrait.

  The stranger next to Colonel Barton stood broad-shouldered and erect, staring straight at the camera. He wore a long coat boasting a single row of what appeared to be military buttons. A blanket was draped over his left shoulder. Two panels of intricate beading ran from beneath the hem of the long coat, down the front of each leg. He wore his thick, black hair cropped short. And he had Noah’s face.

  CHAPTER 24

  The colonel gave Noah’s shoulder a squeeze before retreating to take his seat on the opposite side of the desk. His voice was almost gentle as he said, “His Pawnee name is Blue Bear.”

  “But how—who—” Noah sat back. “Pawnee?”

  The colonel nodded. “The tribe consists of four different bands. Kit was part of the Republican band—the Kitkehahki. The word lesharo is their word for chief. You can see how that might become Leshario. It does sound Italian, but it isn’t.” The colonel paused. His voice gentled. “He’s a fine man, son.”

  Noah stared down at the portrait. His mind raced. This couldn’t be happening. He slid the portrait onto the colonel’s desk and sat back. He shook his head. “Ma said my father’s dead.”

  “I’m sure she thought he was. He very nearly did die.” The colonel took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you only what I know for certain, either because I was an eyewitness, or because I was there when others wrote up their reports on the events. Hostilities were on the rise in ‘64. I remember seeing emigrant wagons that had been brought together and burned so that nothing was left but the iron work.

  “Miss Norah Shaw was with a family group headed west when their wagon train fell prey to the Cheyenne. Later when Miss Shaw was rescued, she said that there were only two survivors of that terrible incident, herself and a young woman. The Cheyenne traded the other woman to the Sioux not long after the initial event.”

  Noah shivered. His own mother…captive? And then left alone. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to speak of it. And yet…and
yet she’d drawn those tepees on the quilt. Why would she have done that? It didn’t make sense for her to memorialize such a terrible event.

  “In the winter of ‘64 to ‘65,” the colonel said, “Kit had been recruited to be a Pawnee Scout. They’d gone into winter camp at Fort Kearny but then were ordered to go north and scout for hostiles. It was early February, and the weather was brutal. All the scouts found was a small band of Cheyenne with a woman captive. There was a short skirmish. The Cheyenne fled, leaving a number of fine ponies and their captive behind. On the way back to Fort Kearny, the company got caught in a snowstorm. Separated by the storm, they were left to their own devices. It snowed almost continually for a week. The scouts eventually straggled back in to Fort Kearny—all, that is, except for Kit Leshario and the woman captive. Everyone assumed they’d perished in the storm.

  “In March, my company engaged a hostile band of Sioux. That was when I learned that my friend Kit and the woman he’d rescued had taken shelter and survived the storm, but then they’d been discovered and were being held captive—this time by the Sioux. Kit was gravely wounded trying to protect the woman—your mother. He survived, but he wasn’t brought back to Fort Kearny with Miss Shaw. I put him on a travois myself and took him to Fort Laramie. I knew the doctor there would see past his skin color and do whatever it took to save him.”

  “You saved his life,” Noah said.

  The colonel shrugged. “He would have done the same for me.” He waited for a couple of minutes before saying, “Miss Shaw was overwrought. Everyone—including me—labeled it ‘hysteria.’ She was bundled off in a wagon. And she was hysterical. But now—now I realize why.” He paused. “She didn’t want to be separated from him.”

  Noah took a deep breath. He swiped at his forehead with a shaky hand.

  The colonel rose from his chair. “I’m going to get us both a glass of water.” He slipped through the swinging door and into the kitchen. Noah heard murmuring, but it seemed distant, almost as if it were in another world. In some ways he supposed it was. Certainly the world he’d known didn’t exist anymore. Everything was different now…everything.

  The colonel came back in, a glass of water in each hand. He handed one to Noah and set the other on his desk, pacing back and forth as he talked. “It was early fall by the time Kit was well enough to make his way back to Fort Kearny to take up his duties with the Pawnee Scouts. Your mother had already left for the East.” The colonel stopped pacing. He took a drink of water.

  Noah just sat, his mind reeling. Mrs. Riley’s spoon-drop biscuits had congealed in his gut. For a moment he thought he might be sick. He reached for the glass of water and drank it down. Can you see me, Ma? She’d called him Bear. Even given him the man’s name. I don’t understand, Ma.

  The colonel must have read his mind. “Kit would never have taken advantage of a helpless woman, son. I knew him. I rode with him, and believe me, men in the field have plenty of opportunity to show their true character. Kit’s was exemplary.” The colonel leaned forward. “They were together for weeks. Alone. In a desperate situation. Your mother would have had opportunity to see all the things that made Kit a ‘man among men.’ That would have been a powerful attraction. You’ve told me your mother was devoted to your father’s memory. As for Kit—he’s lived alone all these years. And he’s still alone. To my mind, that’s testimony to something extraordinary.”

  He’s still alone. Noah frowned. He’d been so awash in feelings, so shocked over the past, he hadn’t taken time to ponder the fact that the colonel was speaking of Kit Leshario in the present tense. His voice cracked when he spoke. “H–he’s not dead?”

  The colonel shook his head. “He works for Bill Cody.”

  Noah stared down at the stranger in the photograph. Kit Leshario. Blue Bear. Alive. Within reach. My father is a Pawnee Indian. Emotions swirled. Tears threatened. He hung his head. This couldn’t be real. Bitterness trickled into his voice. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Maybe because she would have been risking the life she created for the two of you.”

  Noah snorted. “So she left me to discover it this way?”

  “She thought he was dead, Noah. She didn’t leave you to discover anything. If you choose to see it that way, what she did is remarkable. She didn’t just survive—she found a way for you to thrive. And for herself, she created a lasting record—the truth couched in a story. Stories that must have given her great comfort.”

  The colonel made it sound almost noble. Noah shook his head. Ma had given him a life, all right…a life based on a lie. He reached for the portrait and held it up, staring at Kit Leshario’s face. Father. A good man, the colonel said. Someone who’d been willing to give his life for a woman he loved.

  All right. Things happened that, in a moment of time, changed their lives forever. People yielded to temptation. That didn’t mean they were evil. What was it Jesus had said? “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone…. Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?” Extraordinary situations created…situations. What had happened was between God and Ma and…Blue Bear.

  Maybe he could reason his way through all of that. Maybe he could even get to a point where he understood. But that didn’t change reality for him today. Because even if he believed everything the colonel had said about Kit Leshario and even if he made peace with that part of the past, he still had to face the present. The present in which he’d been given what he’d always wanted—and, at the same time, lost what he wanted.

  He knew why the West had meant so much to Ma. He knew what had caused that wistful tone when she spoke of it. He knew why it had changed her forever and why she hadn’t let it go. He knew why she’d preserved the memories, spending hours drawing symbols and outlining them with red thread. He knew. He’d gained a past and lost the future. Because it wouldn’t really matter whether Kit Leshario was a good man or not. It wouldn’t matter if he and Ma loved each other. It wouldn’t matter if Ma fought to stay with him or if they’d planned to marry. It wouldn’t matter that Ma had thought Kit dead and been on the way home before she even knew she was going to have a child. None of it would matter when it came to Emilie.

  Oh, women like Mrs. Rhodes might support reservation schools. They might even attend conferences and try to influence legislation to improve “the plight of the Indian.” Men like Mr. Rhodes might publish articles that encouraged a new day in regards to “the Indian question.” They might even dine with the likes of Charles Eastman and Standing Bear. But for all their philanthropy, when it came to Indians, the daughters of people like Mr. and Mrs. William Rhodes did not marry Indians. And they most certainly did not marry men the world labeled “half-breed bastards.”

  Notebook in hand, Emilie hesitated at the doorway and scanned the Paddock Hotel dining room, looking for Noah. But it was Colonel Barton who rose from where he’d been seated alone at a table along the far wall and came to greet her. “I’ve left Mr. Shaw immersed in a mountain of reading material at my office,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I suggested that he continue reading while I came to the Paddock in his place. I thought we could go ahead with the interview while we dine.”

  A mountain of reading material. That was good, wasn’t it? “Of course I don’t mind,” Emilie said, and took the colonel’s arm. “Noah’s so fascinated with the West. I just knew you’d be able to satisfy his curiosity.”

  The colonel nodded and then changed the subject to the interview at hand. For some reason, the segue felt abrupt. As if he didn’t want to talk about Noah and what he might be reading. It made Emilie feel unsettled. Which, she told herself, was ridiculous. It was only right that he be reluctant to discuss the details of their meeting.

  “Mrs. Riley’s seeing to your Mr. Shaw’s luncheon,” the colonel said. “She’s also expecting us back at the house for dessert. She and my sister are in the throes of apple-dumpling baking.” He spread his napkin
across his lap. “Apparently this year’s assembly nearly decimated the stand of rhubarb in Mrs. Riley’s garden. She’s had to substitute to fulfill her promise to the dining hall out on the grounds.”

  My Mr. Shaw. Pondering that phrase, Emilie barely heard what the colonel was saying about rhubarb and apple-something. When the waiter brought menus, the colonel suggested the cold tomato soup and the hotel’s signature biscuits. Emilie agreed to the selection, requested iced tea to drink, and then, while the colonel ordered for them, pulled out her notebook and scanned the questions she’d prepared.

  “I took the time to read some of your other interviews,” the colonel said. “Very fine work.”

  “Thank you.” Emilie hesitated. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m writing for the newspaper that competes with the Dispatch.”

  The colonel only smiled. “People wonder about all kinds of things that really aren’t any of their business. My compliment was sincere—not a thinly veiled attempt at prying into your personal affairs. And now”—he pointed to her pad of paper—“shall we proceed?”

  “Proceed with what?”

  Emilie’s grasp on her pencil tightened as a familiar voice sounded the question from just over her shoulder. She looked up into Mother’s puzzled face—and then over at Aunt Cornelia, who was clearly just as surprised as Mother to find Emilie at luncheon with Colonel Barton. Things got worse as Colonel Barton said, “I suggested Miss Rhodes conduct our interview here at the hotel.” He smiled at Mother. “You must be very proud—even if she has adopted a nom de plume. It’s certainly commendable for a young woman to seek to be recognized for her talent rather than her family ties.”