Rose

by Jill Marie Landis

  He spoke slowly, piecing the story together for the shaman. “The man and his band attacked a family of immigrants traveling through Iowa. They carried off my mother’s younger brother and sister. They killed everyone but an old man, and after raping my mother, they left her for dead.”

  Running Elk stared hard at Kase. “I see many things in your eyes besides fear. Anger and hatred are there, too.”

  “He raped my mother.”

  “The man left his seed in Her.”

  Kase nodded. “I am his son.”

  The old man said nothing.

  Kase gave him more information. “My mother’s brother and sister were taken during the raid. The sister chose to remain with the Sioux after she married a man called Swift Otter. The boy, Pieter, we have received no word of in many years.”

  Running Elk took a deep breath and mumbled a prayer chant that Kase could not hear. Then he spoke. “I know of the woman who is Swift Otter’s first wife, just as I know of the men who brought her to live among us. You now claim as your father the man named Caleb Storm who is known among the People as Raven’s Shadow, do you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is the agent who brought Red Dog’s band back to the reservation. He was at the fort, Sully, many years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why has he not told you of your father? Why has your mother remained silent?”

  “My mother remembers nothing of the attack, and so she could not identify the man. Caleb told me what happened, but nothing about the man except that he was a murderer and a rapist.” Ashamed, Kase looked away.

  “The man who gave you life was named Red Dog. He was a subchief, a leader of a small band of Oglala that refused to accept reservation life. His ways were wild. As a youth of only sixteen summers, Red Dog went with eight others to raid the settled Iowa lands. They returned with the captives. Years later, he left the reservation again. His followers deserted him. He died a broken man, killed in a minor skirmish with the white soldiers.”

  Kase tried to digest all Running Elk told him. Nothing he heard surprised him, except that the man who had fathered him had been so young. The rest was much as he expected. His true father had been a renegade, a rapist, a man who rebelled until the end of his life.

  “You have the look of Red Dog about you,” the shaman said. “To his wife, you are his ghost.”

  The thought did little to ease Kase’s mind. Not only did the man’s blood run through his veins, but Red Dog’s image was mirrored in his own features. He thanked God that Analisa did not remember the man’s face.

  The shaman was studying him intently. “Now that you know who fathered you, tell me what it is that you still fear, and why you have come so far.”

  Kase struggled with himself, with the very fear the old man could easily see. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. Interlacing his fingers, he stared at his hands and slowly put his fears into words.

  “I’m scared I am like him. I had to learn about this man, to know whether he might have led a good life later on. I don’t know who I am or what I’m capable of and it scares the hell out of me.”

  “And so you strike out at others. Who you are, Kase Storm, is within your own heart. You are not your father, nor are you your mother. You are an individual, a soul unto yourself. Look to the sacred center of yourself and you will have the answers you seek. Do not look to the past or to the future.”

  “And just how am I to find this sacred center of myself?” He could not keep the sarcasm from his tone.

  A frown further creased Running Elk’s brow. “Have you never experienced hanbleceya, never cried for a vision?”

  “Vision quests aren’t all that popular in Boston right now.”

  “It is time you sought the truth that lies within.”

  “Perhaps it’s too late,” Kase admitted. “I thought only young boys went on vision quests.”

  “Hanbleceya can be undertaken at any age. I will help you to prepare.”

  Chapter

  Eleven

  “Dio! ” Rosa cried out and released the pan handle she had unthinkingly grabbed without a pot holder. She shook her stinging fingers andthen inspected them. They did not appear about to blister, so she contented herself with dipping them in the dishwater.

  Nothing seemed to be going right. The fire she kept burning in the stove had gone out sometime in the middle of the night. She had arisen with a neck stiff from sleeping on her narrow cot in the cold kitchen. Chin Yee had arrived late, tearfully apologetic, but late nonetheless. A farmer and his wife, in town to buy supplies, were waiting impatiently in the dining room for their midday meal.

  She heard the front door open and close. Wiping her hands on a dish towel hanging from the waistband of her apron, Rosa went out to greet her customers. Two men in dark woolen suits and brown bowler hats seated themselves near the window. She was arrested by their appearance. Although their clothing was of fine materials cut in the latest style, the shirts they wore beneath the suits were wrinkled, not to mention soiled with grease stains and frayed at the collar; Both men wore holstered guns strapped to their thighs. They appeared to be near the same age, and from the likeness of their features, she guessed they were related.

  They smiled and nodded, ordered complete meals, and then, stretching out in their chairs, they alternately leered in her direction and stared out the window.

  “Miss Rosa, we got to get back out to the ranch,” the farmer seated with his frowning wife reminded her.

  “I’m sorry, Signor Shaw. I will bring your plates out.”

  She hurried into the kitchen where she dished up generous portions of noodles and roast beef, then sent Chin scurrying into the dining room with the orders while she boiled more noodles for the newcomers.

  When the Yee girl reentered the kitchen, Rosa noted bright tears sparkling in her dark almond-shaped eyes. “Chin? What’s the matter?”

  Chin shook her head.

  “What?” Rosa demanded.

  “Nothing,” the young girl whispered.

  “You tell Rosa what’s the matter or I’m lose my temper.” Rosa reached out and put her hands on Chin’s shoulders, forcing the girl to meet her stare.

  “The man pulled my hair.” She drew her queue over her shoulder. The long single braid hung past her waist.

  “Basta! ” Rosa stormed into the dining room and faced the two strangers at the window table. “How come you tease the girl?” she demanded. Her usual attempts to perfect her English were forgotten in her anger.

  Without bothering to straighten himself up, the heavier of the two men indolently stared up at her. A smirk curled his lips. The younger spoke. “Didn’t mean any harm, ma’am.” His tone was far from apologetic.

  “I been wonderin’,” the other said, “what else you serve besides food?”

  “Wine,” Rosa said.

  “Well.” He rubbed his hand across his jaw and slowly stared her up and down. His eyes returned to her breasts. “I was thinkin’ of somethin’ a little tastier. Something imported.”

  Slowly becoming aware that he was insulting her, Rosa felt the flush rise to her cheeks. The younger of two men watched the exchange and then spit into the corner.

  Rosa’s temper snapped.

  “Get out,” she said, fighting to keep her voice low so as not to disturb the farmer and his wife.

  “Out? I don’t think you mean that, spitfire. Do you think she means it, Bart?” The heavyset man looked to the younger for confirmation.

  “Hell no, Bert. I hear tell when most women say no, what they mean is yes.”

  “I heard that somewheres, too, now that I think on it.” Bert stood up and took a step toward her.

  “I said get out,” Rosa repeated. “Nobody spits on my floor.”

  The second man stood. Rosa held her breath.

  “I’m not plannin’ on going anyplace,” Bert said before he reached out and grabbed Rosa by the shoulders. She tried to pull out of his grasp and heard the
shoulder seam of her white blouse give way.

  “Look here, mister.” The farmer attempted to push away from the table and come to Rosa’s aid.

  “Don’t move, old man,” Bart said. His hand flicked to his side and whisked his gun out of his holster.

  Rosa heard the kitchen door slam.

  Bert pulled her up against him. “Now, tell me,” he said, leering down into Rosa’s face, “what’s for dinner?”

  “Let me go.” She refused to cry. Nor would she scream. Fully aware of the farmer held at gunpoint, conscious of the soft sobbing of his wife, Rosa fought to remain calm.

  “I don’t think so,” Bert said. “I kinda like the feel of this hot little Italian in my arms. Watch the door, Bart.” He turned, pressed Rosa against him, and began to back out of the dining room toward the kitchen.

  “Watch the door, Bart. Watch the door, Bart. That’s all I ever hear,” Bart complained as his gaze moved swiftly away from the subdued fanner who stood with his napkin hanging over the front of his overalls.

  “This won’t take long at all, Bart. Just keep lookin’ out that door,” Bert warned.

  Suddenly Rosa felt the man stiffen. He halted just outside the kitchen doorway. She heard Zach Elliot’s voice behind him.

  “That’s the cold barrel of a forty-four you feel pressin’ into your back, mister. Now, if I was you, I’d have your friend drop his gun and I’d let go of the girl.”

  Bert let go of Rosa, and she stepped away from him. When Zach stepped out into the dining room, his gun trained on Bert, she moved past them and into the kitchen. Chin Yee stood beside the stove trembling, but trying to smile. Rosa quickly slipped an arm about the girl.

  “Put your gun back, Bart,” Bert warned.

  The other young gunman hesitated, and Zach cocked his gun.

  “Do it,” Bert demanded.

  “Put it on the table and step away from it,” Zach clarified.

  When Paddie O’Hallohan stepped through the front door carrying the sawed-off shotgun he kept behind the bar, Bart complied. He laid his gun on the table and raised his hands.

  Zach reached out and relieved the man called Bert of his own hardware. “Now I’d like you two to get on your horses and start ridin’ out of town. And I don’t want to see either of you around here again.”

  “You know who you’re talkin’ to, old man?” Bart asked, one eye on Paddie, who hovered behind him.

  “Yeah. I’m talkin’ to a coward that has to hold a gun to a woman’s head to get what he wants. That don’t make you much of a man in my book.” Zach prodded the man forward. Rosa, her arm around Chin for support as much as for comfort, followed Zach into the dining room. She couldn’t hold back a smile when she saw Paddie in the doorway, the sunlight shining off his bald pate.

  “You’ll be sorry, old man,” Bert warned.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Zach mumbled.

  “You can’t keep our guns,” Bart protested as Paddie moved aside to let them through the doorway.

  “You write to me from wherever you end up and I’ll mail ‘em to ya.”

  The back door slammed and Rosa jumped. Slick Knox walked into the dining room, a gun in each hand. “You got troubles, Miss Rosa?” he wanted to know.

  Rosa had never seen the usually jovial gambler so serious. His lips were set beneath his waxed mustache, his brows drawn together. Suddenly the unusually silent gambler was a man she would not want to cross.

  “The signori Zach and Paddie came to help. I thank you, Signor Slick, for your help, too.”

  Slick moved past her and stepped out onto the walk with the others. Within moments the two strangers were out of sight.

  The shaken farmer sat back down, and Rosa released Chin long enough to apologize to the Shaws.

  “It weren’t your fault, Miss Rosa. Don’t you pay it no mind.” Although his hand was still shaking, the man reached for his fork and proceeded to finish his meal. His wife sniffed loudly, blew her nose into the napkin, and stared at her plate.

  Within moments, Zach, Paddie, and Slick returned.

  “You all right now, Miz Rosie?” Zach wanted to know; his grizzled hair was wild beneath his slouching hat, his brow knit in a frown.

  She smiled tremulously at each of them in turn. Paddie mopped his head with a handkerchief, his ruddy cheeks aflame. Slick looked as unruffled as ever as he casually shoved his guns into the waistband of his gaily striped pants.

  Rosa felt her eyes mist with tears.

  “Such good friends,” she whispered. “I thank you all.” She straightened the front of her apron and blinked back tears. “Now sit.” Businesslike, she pulled out a chair with a flourish. “Sit. Eat. Mangia. Today everyone at Rosa’s eats free!”

  On a wind-beaten bluff, lying in a pit covered with brush and leaves, Kase awoke and stared out of the narrow opening at the panoramic landscape that stretched toward the horizon. The morning sun was about to rise, to break through the clouds and melt away the shroud of tenacious fog that clung to the streams and riverbeds in the flatlands below. He crawled out of the pit and began the ritual prayer to Anpo Wichpi, the morning star, by standing in turn beside each of four sapling poles thrust into the earth at the directional points, north, south, east, and west. Decorative colored rags fluttered from each pole, their incessant rustling the only sound in the silence of dawn. The sacred pipe, cannunpa wakan, he kept with him every moment, just as Running Elk had directed. The colorfully decorated pipe had been filled with cansasa, a native tobacco made of redwood, and then sealed with tallow. It would protect him from evil as long as he held it.

  Once his prayers were over, he returned to the pit, his energy all but depleted after three days of fasting. As he sat in the brisk morning air waiting for the vision Running Elk had assured him would come, he wondered what in the hell he was doing. The shaman had taken him to the sacred hill, instructed him in the digging of the pit, and said he would return in four days. During that time Kase was to stay in the pit and listen carefully to the birds and animals that would bring him messages.

  The morning lengthened and the shadows shortened as the sun reached the midday sky. Kase decided he had no business sitting nearly naked in the middle of nowhere waiting for something that he only half believed would happen. For all he knew, the shaman’s work was merely hocus-pocus. Caleb had taught him the rudimentary facts of Sioux religion and lore, but aside from having interesting discussions, they had never practiced any of the rituals. Now, instead of feeling enthusiasm for what the shaman predicted would happen to him, Kase only experienced doubt.

  He did not belong here; that much had been evident from the beginning. Conditioned to ride for miles, not walk, he was exhausted after an hour of the slow, easy jog Running Elk had suggested he maintain as he accompanied the shaman, who rode on horseback, to the bluff. His feet, encased in low-cut moccasins, ached where they had become bruised. There was something to be said for a good pair of boots, especially when a man faced a long walk over rocky terrain. He was bone-tired, his calves and thigh muscles ached from the strain of overuse, and he was filthy with dust. No, he thought with a wry smile and a shake of his head, he did not belong here.

  If the old man had not seemed so certain that a vision quest was the Only way to settle his unanswered questions, Kase would have ended the farce after thirty minutes of running and returned to the settlement near the agency. But Running Elk’s eyes had held such promise, his softly spoken instructions had been so firm with belief, that Kase agreed to try. The old man was certain a vision would come after he had fasted, prayed, waited in the pit, and opened his spirit to the knowledge that would surely come to him.

  But so far he had heard nothing.

  I’m too old for this. Youths go on vision quests. This, he decided, is a waste of time.

  Cramped from sitting cross-legged, Kase stretched his legs out before him, lifted his face toward the sun, and sighed. Tomorrow, when Running Elk returned, he would tell the shaman that the quest had been a fai
lure. He had wasted enough time and felt an overwhelming urge to return to Busted Heel. He told himself it was because Zach needed to be relieved of his voluntary job as marshal, but he knew that was a lie. He thought of Rose Audi more with every passing day.

  As the sun hovered above him, he tried to forget the hunger gnawing at his innards and wrestled with the question of Rose’s place in his life. He picked up a small stone near his thigh and tossed it out over the precipice. At first she had infuriated him with her stubborn refusal to leave Busted Heel. But it was evident she wasn’t going anywhere. Even he had to admit he admired her tenacity. She had managed to turn the dreary store her husband left behind into a growing business and at the same time befriended everyone she met. What would happen to those ties if he followed his own heart and asked her to share his future? Would people think less of her for loving a half-breed?

  There were so many things in his heart he had never revealed to her—things she had tried to get him to speak of—and upon his return to town he intended to tell her about his past as well as the place she now held in his heart. He had never cared for a woman before the way he cared for Rose. With a shrug he admitted to himself that what he felt could very well be love. But if he loved her, should he subject her to the prejudice she would surely face if she shared his love and his life? He knew without a doubt that if any woman could face the challenge, it was Rose.

  Quiet hours passed and the shadows began to lengthen as he wrestled with his thoughts. Kase heard a ground squirrel scuffling through the nearby brush in search of food for winter storage. It turned bright brown eyes his way and paused long enough to watch him for a moment before it hurried on without a word. He shook his head, closed his eyes, and let the last warm rays of the sun drive away the autumn chill. Was he losing his mind? He was actually listening for talking animals.

  Before it became dark, he lay down again and covered himself with the thick buffalo robe the old man had given him. He found his body slowing down, conserving movement now that it found itself in a state of semistarvation. Kase stared into the darkness and welcomed the night; Running Elk would return at dawn.