by Shirl Henke
“Thank you, my friend. I don't know how I'd survive if it weren't for you. Lord, I am tired this morningl·I— Ooh!” Carrie whitened and doubled over in the midst of rubbing her temples with her fingers. Clutching her belly, she swayed toward a kitchen chair.
“Senora!” Feliz reverted to formality in her fright. “What is wrong? Is it the baby?” She rushed over and helped Carrie sit down.
“No, Dr. Lark said almost two more weeks. It can't be yet.”
The older woman scoffed. “Pah! Men doctors. What do they know? A few days one way or the other, quien sabe?” She helped Carrie stand and said in a firm, no-nonsense voice. “Now it is you who will go to bed. I will send for the doctor at once.”
Carrie managed the stairs and changed into her nightdress under Feliz`s clucking ministrations. After the rotund Mexicaná dispatched a hand to town for the doctor, Carrie's contractions began in earnest. At first they were widely spaced, allowing her time to think. Feliz, assuring her that moving would speed the delivery, supported her as they walked around the room. She considered names as she walked. Noah had already chosen Abel, for his long-dead brother. She had not been consulted. Because having a daughter meant submitting to his bestiality again, she had not wanted to think of girls' names, but had finally decided upon Naomi, for her mother. She never mentioned it to Noah, feeling sure he would be furious to even consider the prospect of a girl child.
Now, however, she could choose a son's name, also, if indeed the child was a boy. Of course, there was always the slim chance that it would not be Noah's child at all. That thought pleased her greatly, but she suppressed it, feeling certain she could not bear the disappointment if it proved to be wrong. “No matter if you are Noah's, I will love you and raise you to be a good, loving person. I swear it.”
Feliz heard Carrie's whispered words. Just then another contraction came, and the cook held her hand until it passed. She felt such intense sorrow for this beautiful young woman, forced to endure Noah's attentions and now to go through the rigors of childbirth with no memories of joy and love to sustain her. I only hope you can love the child of that devil-man.
Mrs. Thorndyke sat forgotten in the study, wondering what was going on. Hearing, all the commotion in the house, she finally brought herself under control and went into the hall, where she spied Estrella scurrying upstairs. Upon being told of the impending birth, she went to her room to wait. Now we'll just see if it comes out white or red!
By the time Dr. Lark arrived in late afternoon, Carrie's contractions were very close together. Sweat-soaked in the July heat, she dutifully followed Feliz's instructions, kneeling on the bed, panting, relaxing her body to flow with the contractions, not fighting them. It helped.
Overhearing Feliz speak to Carrie as he came in the door, the fat man frowned and set down his bag forcefully on the bedside table. “All right,” he made a dismissing motion to the cook, “we've had enough of this superstitious nonsense. Get her to lie down and leave. I'll call you when you are needed.”
Carrie's contraction was over, and she looked gratefully at her friend, who was lovingly sponging her face and neck with a cool cloth. “Please, doctor, I want her to stay. She won't be in the way.” Now that she was lying on her back, the pain seemed greater.
He harrumphed noisily as he opened his bag. “Just see to it that you listen to me and not that gibberish,” he said pompously.
Carrie looked past him and winked at Feliz, who grinned and said, “I will fetch more clean water and linens. I think you will need them soon.” With that she vanished out the door.
“How on earth would she know when this child will be born?” he said peevishly.
Carrie couldn't suppress a grin as she said, “Maybe because she's had four of her own?”
As Feliz had predicted, the final stage of the delivery was imminent. The Mexicana held Carrie's hands and spoke soothingly to her while Estrella scurried about, fetching things for Dr. Lark. A few final stabbing contractions, and through her haze of burning pain and exhaustion, Carrie heard the lusty wail of a baby.
“Well, Mrs. Sinclair, you have a son,” the doctor said brusquely. His voice was cold and sarcastic. “I'll finish this delivery, but never again ask me to come to this place of iniquity!” With that he handed the squalling bundle to Feliz after tying off the cord and turning his attention back to Carrie.
“Let me see him, please, oh please, Feliz!” Carrie panted as the final contractions expelled the afterbirth.
Feliz held the infant, staring down at its tiny face in awe. “Hawk has not been disinherited after all,” she breathed as she wiped away the birth cream. A fierce surge of exultation swept over her, reminding her of the dark Yaqui gods her ancestors had worshipped in Mexico long ago. It is justice. Now so much made sense: Noah's black rage, his confining Carrie to her room the past month, Mrs. Thorndyke's renewed spite, and Carrie's fearful case of nerves the whole duration of her pregnancy. Gently she placed the squirming infant in his mother's arms.
Before she saw him, she knew. Ignoring Dr. Lark's shocked, indignant show of self-righteous temper, Carrie looked at her son, her lover's son. His thick black hair was straight, his cheekbones set high, even in his infant's face. The brilliant coal-black eyes and coppery skin unmistakably proclaimed him Cheyenne.
As her fingertips caressed his tiny face and head, tears began to stream down her cheeks. “Oh, thank God, thank God,” she breathed aloud as relief and joy flooded over her.
Proudly, she looked up at Feliz, facing what she knew should be her shame. What she felt instead was joy, pure mindless joy. Would her friend understand or condemn her as the doctor had? Instantly she knew, and it gladdened her heart.
“He is a beautiful baby, Carrie.” Feliz's eyes glowed. “He looks just like his father did. I know. I was there when he was born.”
“He is an Indian, and most obviously not your husband's! I shall, of course, report this to Attorney Cooper.” With that, Lark snapped his case shut and started to leave the room.
Feliz's voice stopped him. “You cannot deny he is a Sinclair, can you, doctor?” His florid face mottled even more darkly at her temerity.
“It really won't matter what you tell Cooper,” Carrie said. “The terms of my husband's will are very explicit—I and my child inherit. When he wrote the will, it never occurred to Noah that it wouldn't be his.”
Just then Mrs. Thorndyke burst in the room, bridling in rage. “I knew it! This brazen slut, carrying on with that filthy savage! It's indecent, a sin, a black nasty sin!” She advanced on the bed, one bony finger shaking in front of her.
Feliz's considerable bulk blocked her progress, and then Carrie cut in with a voice of quiet authority that belied her exhausted state. “Your services at Circle S are terminated, Mathilda. I think the good doctor here will be happy to give you a ride away from this place of iniquity, won't you, Phineas?”
Too livid to speak, Lark grabbed Mrs. Thorndyke's arm and practically marched to the door.
* * * *
Daybreak the next morning found Carrie propped up in bed, nursing her infant son while Estrella fussed with the sheets and Feliz set up an elaborate and hearty breakfast on the bedside table. As the baby nursed, his tiny fingers clasped and unclasped over the gleaming silver medallion that lay between his mother's breasts. Immediately after her delivery, Carrie had asked Feliz to pry up the loose floorboards beneath the rug and retrieve the beloved talisman from its hiding place. With fingers trembling in love and exhausted happiness, she had placed the medallion once more where it belonged, as surely as she belonged to the man who had given it to her.
When Feliz had finished laying out the ridiculous quantity of food, she said, “What are you going to name him, Carrie?”
Carrie's eyes took on a faraway look as she recalled a dream from her childhood. It had been a recurrent nightmare to her until now. Now she understood the wolf and the hawk. “I shall call him Peregrine. Perry for short.”
Thinking of the fierce pred
atory breed of migratory hawks, Feliz nodded in approval.
Looking down at Perry, Carrie added a brief prayer. If only we can bring the wanderer back to see his son, little one, if only...
In the weeks that followed, Carrie was to learn a series of bitter lessons about running a large ranch as a woman alone, especially a woman fallen under the stigma of consorting with an Indian and bearing a half-breed child. Few people in town remembered Noah's infidelities or cared. He had not been loved, but he had been a rich, powerful white man who had tried to live down the shame of his youthful and ill-advised marriage to a Cheyenne woman. His luck with white wives had served him no better, they sadly clucked.
Mrs. Thorndyke, now living in town and working at Cummins's General Store, fanned the fires of lurid gossip. She told any and all who would listen—and most did—that Carrie and Hawk had carried on openly and brazenly, breaking poor Mr. Noah's heart. She was a gold-digging whore who only entrapped him for his wealth. In an area where fear and hatred of all red people was rampant and fighting between hostiles and the army still a reality, it was easy for the discharged housekeeper to win an avid audience for her lies.
The hands at the ranch were ambivalent in their feelings. Most had heartily disliked Noah and his high-handed, brutal way, but he had been their boss and a white man. They had also admired his beautiful and spirited young wife, but to have her caught in such blatant unfaithfulness violated every rule they held sacred for decent women, especially since her sin was with Noah's Cheyenne son. Most of them had viewed Hawk as an enigma, a distant, overeducated, fearfully dangerous half-breed gunman. Whether they liked him and Carrie or not, or even hated Noah, the fact remained that white women simply did not lay with red men. That was the code of the West. Few men were brave enough to stand against this prejudice.
Frank Lowery would have been one to do so. Everyone knew he favored Hawk and had been at Circle S since the boy was born. But Lowery was dead. And since the vacuum created by Noah's death, leadership at the ranch had gravitated to Caleb Rider by dint of his close association with Noah, that and his reputation as a gunman. Caleb did not like Indians any more than Noah did.
Despite the heat, trouble with the hands, and even Caleb Rider's studied insolence, Carrie felt radiant. She checked her appearance in the mirror across the floor of the big room she now occupied. The day after Perry's birth, she had Feliz and Estrella move all her things into Hawk's old room at the rear of the house. It held beautiful memories, whereas her own room held ugly ones. It was large and, once cleaned out, surprisingly airy. She would do some simple redecorating one day. For now, it was convenient to the kitchen downstairs, where she spent most of her time.
She checked her figure critically in the mirror. A month after Perry's birth she could scarcely believe how well her shape was returning. Secretly, she had harbored fears about gaining weight, especially since Feliz insisted she eat so much and her appetite was voracious. Nursing mothers need extra nourishment, admonished the old cook. “Well, so far, she's right,” Carrie said to her reflection, adjusting the bodice on her green batiste dress. It was the coolest thing she owned. Cut with loose sleeves, a soft, full skirt, and low, rounded neckline, it was both casual and comfortable, yet flattering to her dark green eyes and flaming hair. Reaching for a green ribbon, she tied it carelessly around her hair at the back of her neck, allowing the riot of tumbling curls to fall to her waist. Not fancy, but no company was coming.
She sighed as she headed downstairs to help Feliz with the baking. Perry was asleep next door in the coolest room in the house, with Estrella hovering over him. Carrie had seen little of anyone else since Mrs. Thorndyke and Dr. Lark had stormed out a month ago.
She had gone to town, just to be sure no one could contest her claim to Circle S. Attorney Cooper had stiffly replied that her assumptions regarding the will were correct. His eyes had been icy in disdain, as if she were a leper. Numbly leaving his office, she went over to Cummins's General Store to buy some supplies for Feliz. If Cooper had been aloof, Cyrus Cummins was downright rude. Even more surprising was his daughter's reaction. Kitty Cummins, her wedding date set with her fat, nearsighted banker, had obviously forgotten her earlier infatuation with Hawk. She called Carrie an Indian-loving adulteress! Remembering the scathing comments of the vicious-tongued girl, Carrie decided she was probably just jealous.
However, though Carrie could laugh off Kitty Cummins, she could not ignore her total social ostracism. Mrs. Grummond had informed her she did not need “that kind of money” and would no longer sew for her. Several other ranchers' wives who had been friendly, even motherly before, stepped across the street rather than have their skirts contaminated by “Hawk Sinclair's squaw.” Even Reverend Becker had told her to take the savage's child back to his people, that he would not baptize an Indian child conceived in sin!
“Well, damn them all, bigoted self-righteous prigs,” she said defiantly. But life would be lonely without a single caller from town. Even worse was Cy Cummins's threats to stop doing business with Circle S. Of course, as long as she paid the bill, Circle S business was far too lucrative, for him to give up. He still needed ‘‘that kind of money.”
As long as she could pay, she was all right; but with so many hands wandering off and Caleb Rider in charge, Carrie was fearful about holding on to her son's birthright.
With these weighty thoughts preying on her mind, she went down to the kitchen only to have Feliz inform her Karl Krueger was waiting to see her in the parlor. Unnerved at the unexpected turn of events, Carrie smoothed her hair and wished fervently that she had worn a more formal dress that warm day. Too late to go back up and change. Whatever could that leering old pirate want? she thought nervously.
As he waited for Carrie to appear, Krueger paced across the wide parlor floor. It galled him to come to Noah Sinclair's house, even more to deal with his half-breed son's mistress. Nevertheless, he was a practical man. He wanted clear title to all the Circle S lands, and one way or another he would get them.
How would he handle her? All things considered, it was hardly appropriate to offer condolences on Noah's demise. He could scarcely congratulate her on the birth of her son, either! He swore in German and resumed his pacing. Just then he heard soft footfalls on the carpet.
Krueger looked just as she remembered him, tall and somewhat overweight, with massive bones and hard brooding eyes that seemed to skewer people as if they were insects. She did not like him.
“Good morning, Mr. Krueger. What may I do for you?” Her voice was cautious and puzzled.
“Good day to you, Frau Sinclair. I trust you are well?” He walked over and reached for her hand before she was aware of his intent. Raising it to his lips, he planted a kiss on it, his hypnotic eyes never leaving her face. God, she was even more striking than he remembered! The Sinclair men had good taste in women. Too bad they tended to share them a bit more than was customary!
“Surely you didn't ride all this way to inquire about my health.” Withdrawing her hand and steeling herself to show none of the revulsion he aroused in her, Carrie faced him with a challenging look in her eyes.
He put up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “You are right. I admire a forthright woman, so I will be a forthright man.” He put on his most disarming smile. “You are a widow, alone with an infant to raise, an easterner in a wild uncivilized land. You cannot possibly hope to hold Circle S together, especially now that Frank Lowery is dead. Even if he were alive...” He shrugged in an expression of doubt. “I propose to buy the ranch from you. I'll make all the arrangements with Attorney Cooper so you need not even concern yourself with such complex affairs.”
She let him talk, kicking herself for not anticipating his move. “Complex affairs,” indeed! As if she were so stupid she could not read a legal document. I'm surprised he thinks I'm smart enough to sign my name. Smiling chillingly, Carrie said, “If I may be so unseemly bold as to ask, what exactly were you prepared to offer for Circle S and all its livesto
ck?”
Something in her tone of voice set his teeth on edge and warned him. Had he handled her wrong? He swore silently. “But of course, I did not mean to insult you, Frau Sinclair. How does fifty thousand sound?”
And you didn't mean to insult me, huh? “I realize that you think it should sound like a lot of money to a penniless St. Louis orphan, Herr Krueger,” his eyebrows went up as she paused, confirming to her that he had checked on her background, “but the cattle alone are worth more than that, not to mention the horses, buildings, and land. Anyway,” she paced over to the window and looked out at the big open sky, “it doesn't matter how much you offer, the answer's the same. No. This ranch is my son's birthright. I mean to keep it for him.”
Krueger's face became shuttered as he marshaled every ounce of self-control he possessed. The nerve of the chit! Married off by her own family, without a dime, now saddled with a half-breed's bastard, no one to run this place, and she threw his money back at him! “I would not be so hasty, my dear,” he ground out. “You cannot get men to take orders from a woman, especially an eastern woman. Who will be your foreman? I've heard rumors that most of the hands are not working now. Some have already left your employ. Even your domestic staff has deserted you.”
“If you're referring to Mrs. Thorndyke, I fired her. If some of the men want to quit, I'll hire new ones and I'll get a ramrod. I don't think my being an easterner should be any greater obstacle than your being a foreigner, Herr Krueger. What do you think?” She stood, head cocked to one side, exuding confidence.
“I think you are still a woman, young, vulnerable...and foolish,” he taunted, growing impatient with the charade.
“Evelyn Henderson is a woman also, and she manages to run Lazy H quite well. Even Noah remarked on that. I may be new to this territory, but I think you'll find me a very quick learner. I've had to be. Now, if you would like some coffee or a mid-morning luncheon, I'll be glad to have Feliz—”
“That will not be necessary,” he interrupted. “You will live to regret your actions, my dear, I assure you.” With that he turned to storm out of the room.