Wolf Runner

by Constance O'Banyon

  Gripping the door handle tightly, she refused to step aside so he could enter. “I would ask you in, but I’m not very good company today, Mr. Sullivan.”

  Removing his hat, he stood dripping on the doorstep, then moved her aside and entered anyway.

  “I know about your sorrow,” he said, gripping her shoulders. “What you need is someone to look after you.” He walked over to the small table and lit the oil lamp. “There. Isn’t that better?”

  Remembering her manners, Cheyenne forced a smile. “Yes, it is.”

  The poor man was soaked to the skin, so she added a log to the fire. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a cup of coffee because I didn’t make coffee today…because…because I don’t drink coffee.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  He stared at her for so long it made her grip her hands and squirm uncomfortably.

  “I didn’t come for food or drink—I came to see how you’re making out.”

  “About how you would expect.”

  “Why are you alone? Someone should be with you.”

  His concern sounded false to her ears. “The Men-dozas were with me at the funeral and offered to stay with me.”

  “The blacksmith and his family.”

  “Yes. My friends.” She returned to the door, her hand on the doorknob. “If you’ll forgive me, I don’t feel much like talking.”

  “What I have to say will only take a few moments,” Nigel told her. “I want you to know I’m your friend.” He studied her closely. “Did your grandmother tell you I hold the mortgage on this house?”

  Gasping, Cheyenne could feel the color drain from her face and her heart plummeted. “I…no. Gram didn’t mention it. I know she had to mortgage the house last year, but she didn’t tell me you held the note.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know.” He shrugged. “I allowed you and your grandmother to live here without charge, knowing she was sick and the two of you were having a hard time.” He looked pleased with himself. “It was the least I could do.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” And she didn’t. Cheyenne certainly did not want to owe this man for anything. She remembered Gram’s warning and shuddered.

  “It’s no big matter. I merely mention it because as a young girl alone, it would not be seemly for you to remain here by yourself.”

  “I wouldn’t want to.” Cheyenne tried to think where she could go. After his revelation that he held the mortgage, she knew she would have to leave this house.

  “Do you have friends you can stay with?” Nigel asked, looking at the way her black hair glowed in the lamplight.

  Raising her head, she met his gaze, her world was crumbling around her. “The Mendoza family. But I can’t stay with them in their small house. It is hardly big enough for their family.”

  “I’m truly worried about you.” Nigel shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, warming himself in front of the fireplace. “Maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

  “My problems are not yours, Mr. Sullivan. If you will give me a few days I will vacate this house.”

  His gaze dropped to the front of her gown and he stared at the way her breasts pressed against the dark material. “I wonder if you have thought about the talk we had some time back? You will be welcome to a room at my hotel—you could pay for the room by working for me and doing little chores around the place.”

  Cheyenne shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  His gaze hardened. “Why not? You could be a big help to my wife, Nancy. Wouldn’t that make it all right?”

  Cheyenne ducked her head, wishing he would leave. “I can’t think about anything but Gram right now. I don’t mean to be rude, but would you leave?” She opened the door a crack to enforce her wishes.

  He approached her and shoved the door shut. “It’s like I said before, you can clean the rooms for spending money. How does that sound to you?”

  It sounded like her worst nightmare. “Can I let you know later?” she asked, stalling for time.

  He reached for his hat and twisted the brim with his huge hands. “Of course. But don’t take too long; you’re not likely to get a better offer in this town.”

  “I do need to be alone,” Cheyenne said, ducking her head. “Please understand.”

  His eyes darted over her with the coldness of a snake’s. “Come to see me when you’re feeling better.”

  He took her hand and she jerked away, clasping them behind her, and he pretended not to notice.

  “Do you have a key for this door?”

  She wasn’t sure, but she hoped there was one so she could lock him out. “I believe so. Gram probably put it somewhere.”

  “You’ll want to keep your door locked, being a woman alone.”

  He was frightening her now, because he was staring into her eyes in a way that made her cringe. “I have a gun, Mr. Sullivan, and I know how to use it.”

  He clamped his hat on his head and narrowed his gaze. “Come to see me soon.”

  After he had gone, Cheyenne pressed her weight against the door, her whole body shaking.

  The one thing she would never do—no matter how desperate she became—was to move into his hotel. She had to think of some other way to earn a living.

  But how?

  Mr. Sullivan would never leave her alone. She would have to leave Santa Fe. Tomorrow she would talk to Señor Mendoza and he might have some ideas for her.

  Cheyenne had not eaten all day, but she doubted she would be able to keep anything down. Already she could taste bile in the back of her throat.

  Frantically, she scooted a chair across the room and propped it beneath the door handle, hoping it would keep any intruder out, or at least alert her if someone tried to open the door. Cheyenne raced to the kitchen and slid the wooden latch in place, wishing there was one on the front door as well.

  Walking through the empty house, she felt a chill. Climbing onto the middle of Gram’s bed, Cheyenne grasped her grandmother’s pillow and sank her face into it. It smelled so painfully familiar with just the hint of lilacs.

  Shaking uncontrollably, she cried until she was exhausted.

  “Gram, I need you.”

  Her gram could not answer.

  Cheyenne was alone.

  Chapter Ten

  Cheyenne glanced out the window, relieved that the rain had finally stopped and a weak sun poked through scattered clouds.

  Grabbing up her still-damp shawl, she left the house and made her way to Señor Mendoza’s blacksmith shop. It was impossible to miss all the mud puddles as she stepped onto the street, her shoes already wet and muddy.

  Why hadn’t she worn her leather boots? She chided herself, wading through a puddle that seeped through her thin-soled shoes.

  When she approached the blacksmith shop she heard the clanging of a hammer striking an anvil and was comforted by the familiar sound. When Señor Mendoza saw her, he wiped sweat from his brow and gave her his full attention.

  “How are you today, pequeña?” His soft eyes were filled with sympathy.

  Señor Mendoza had called her his “little one” since she was a child, and she was comforted by the familiar endearment. “I’m making out. Thank you for asking.”

  “Margareta said if I saw you today I was to invite you to supper, señorita. You should not be alone at a time like this.”

  She smiled at the man she admired above all others. His dark hair was dusted with gray, and his brown eyes radiated warmth. His arms were muscled from the heavy smithy work he did, but he was a gentle man, who loved his family, and he had always included her in that number.

  “I have so much to do, I haven’t thought about eating,” she admitted. “I need to be moved out of the house as soon as possible. I found out yesterday that Mr. Sullivan holds the mortgage. Do you think you could store a few of Gram’s belongings in your loft until I can decide what to do with them?”

  He stilled. “Of course, but why must you leave?”


  She lowered her head. “It’s Mr. Sullivan. He has always made me uncomfortable, but when he came by the house last night…I really can’t explain why, but I was frightened.”

  The blacksmith’s jaw tightened. “Just say when you want your things moved and I will bring a wagon and my sons to help. Meantime, you must stay with us.”

  Cheyenne shook her head, knowing he was worried about her, and she didn’t want that. “I need to stay in the house until I pack away Gram’s belongings. Everything should be ready day after tomorrow. Can you come late in the afternoon?”

  “I will be there,” he told her with feeling. “How are you fixed for money, Señorita Cheyenne?”

  “I have enough to get me by until I find work.”

  He continued to look at her worriedly, and she was sure he did not believe her.

  “I wonder if you would accept the chickens and the milk cow?” she asked hurriedly, hoping to take his mind off her money situation.

  He nodded, feeling her heartbreak. “I can take them and even pay you a little for them.”

  “No. I don’t want money from you. I just want you to have them.”

  He lowered his head, feeling ashamed that he could give Cheyenne so little in her time of need. He had nothing to offer.

  “Señor Mendoza, I believe Gram would have liked Señora Mendoza to have her furniture. I have no use for it anymore. But I could not bear to get rid of Gram’s personal belongings. They are what I would like you to store for me.”

  “It is too much,” he said, shaking his head. “I cannot pay you what the furniture is worth.”

  “I could never sell Gram’s furniture. They are a gift to your family, for all your kindnesses.”

  “Kindness is not for sale, pequeña.”

  “No, it isn’t. I wouldn’t even try. It would mean so much for me to know your family is using Gram’s furniture. I couldn’t bear for anyone else to have the breakfront that has been in our family for generations. It was Gram’s pride and joy.”

  He watched her for a moment and saw tears swimming in her eyes. “I know Margareta will take care of it for you, and for the rest, I thank you.”

  She smiled. “You will never know how much your family means to me.”

  He picked up his bellows and started fanning the flame in the forge, too choked up to speak at first. When the fire leaped high, he turned back to her. “Señorita Cheyenne, remember, you will always have a home with us.”

  “Thank you. I may spend a night or two with you, but I have to make my own way, Señor Mendoza.”

  He had known her since childhood and he knew about her pride. “The offer is there for you if you should ever change your mind.”

  She reached up and kissed his rough cheek. “Thank you.”

  He watched Cheyenne turn and walk away—she was such a lonely figure that it tugged at his heart. The “good” people of this town treated her no better than the dust beneath their feet. She was a sweet young girl, and she had so many troubles. He wanted to help her, but she would not accept his help. The pride of the young was often their undoing, he thought sorrowfully.

  The sun had poked through the clouds again and it had stopped raining. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor surrounded by wooden crates and crumpled paper, Cheyenne lovingly wrapped each item before carefully placing it inside the crate. It was heartbreaking enough to pack up her gram’s meager belongings without the day being dark and gloomy.

  Time was of the essence. She had to be out of this house before Mr. Sullivan returned. And she wanted to have everything ready by the time Señor Mendoza came by with his wagon.

  Cheyenne found a packet of old letters wrapped in blue ribbon and she smiled—they were to Gram from her grandfather. She would not read them now, but she could not throw them away. They would be packed with the other things she was keeping and stored in Señor Mendoza’s loft.

  She lifted a faded tintype of her father and tears spilled down her cheeks. The world was a lonely place without family, without a home, without anyone who really cared about her.

  Frowning, Cheyenne saw something tucked behind the frame—an envelope. She carefully slid it out and stared at it for a long moment. It was from Indian Territory, from a Mr. Samuel Dickens.

  “Hmm,” she said aloud, wondering whom the letter was from, and why her gram had hidden it away.

  Removing the letter from the envelope she held it to the lamp and began to read:

  Dear Mrs. Gatlin,

  Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Indian agent for the Cheyenne tribe in Indian Territory. Chief Bold Eagle has asked me to make inquiries about his daughter’s child, whom he has reason to believe is your granddaughter. He is most anxious to hear about the child and would appreciate any words of comfort you can offer him about his deceased daughter’s child.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Samuel Dickens

  P.S. Since writing the above the Cheyenne people have been relocated to Montana. If you will write to me, I will make certain the letter reaches Chief Bold Eagle.

  I have told him that it is unlikely he will ever find the child. But this does not dampen his spirits. If he cannot see her, he would like to know if she is thriving. If you can help set his mind at ease, you will have his gratitude, as well as mine.

  Cheyenne held the letter to her breast as fresh tears washed down her cheeks.

  She had family, a grandfather!

  And he wanted to see her.

  Of course, the letter was dated three years earlier. Bold Eagle might be dead by now.

  Why had her grandmother never mentioned to her that she had family looking for her?

  Had Gram ever answered the letter?

  Cheyenne did not think so.

  If anything, Gram would have gone to great lengths to keep her granddaughter away from the Cheyenne tribe.

  Someone knocked on the door and Cheyenne’s head jerked up. She wiped her tears on her apron before she went to answer it. Maria was still sick with a fever, so it would not be her, and Señor Mendoza was not coming with the wagon for a couple of days.

  When she opened the door shock registered in her mind—she had never spoken to the woman who stood on the doorstep staring back at her, but she recognized Mrs. Sullivan. She wondered if the woman had come to ask her to vacate her husband’s property.

  “Would you like to come in?” Cheyenne asked, stepping aside.

  “Indeed I do,” the woman ground out. “I certainly want to talk to you.”

  Nancy Sullivan was a small-boned woman with thin, light brown hair. She was pretty despite the dark circles underneath her eyes. Her blue-and-white gingham gown was made of the finest quality material and not store-bought, but probably ordered from some fancy dress shop back East.

  “If you like coffee, I could make some,” Cheyenne offered.

  Looking about the cluttered room Nancy Sullivan’s thin lips curled in distaste. “No. I don’t want any.”

  Quickly removing a stack of books from a chair and placing them on the floor, Cheyenne said, “Please forgive the mess. As you see, I’m packing. If you have come to inquire when I will be leaving, I will have most of the things out in two days.”

  Nancy Sullivan glared at the young woman, casting her a smug glance. “I have not come to ask you to vacate the house. I came with a warning.”

  Mr. Sullivan’s wife was plainly angry and Cheyenne could not understand why. “A warning?”

  “Yes, my girl. I’m warning you to stay away from my husband. Don’t deny you are after him, ’cause I know you are.”

  Feeling her face pale, Cheyenne stared at her uninvited guest as if she had lost her mind. “I do deny it! I don’t want anything to do with your husband. Why would I?”

  “Of course you’d say that to throw me off track.” The woman gave Cheyenne a wintery smile. “Do you deny he was with you the very night your grandmother was buried?” the woman asked, glaring at Cheyenne. “He was seen coming in here.”

  “He c
ame to tell me he owned this house and to offer me a job. He said you would approve—I didn’t believe him.”

  Mrs. Sullivan’s face reddened. “And I suppose he offered you a room at the End of Trail.”

  “He did. But I can assure you, Mrs. Sullivan, I have no intentions of moving to your hotel or working for your husband.” She gave a sweep of her hand. “As you can see, I am packing to move out of this house.”

  Nancy Sullivan stood and began pacing the room, which was no easy task since she had to weave her steps around wooden crates that littered her way. “I can always tell when my husband forms a new attachment for some woman.” Her lip curled in distaste. “But you,” she said with disgust. “A half-breed Indian, it sickens me that Nigel would take up with the likes of you.”

  Cheyenne felt the woman’s harsh words like a physical blow. “I’m not responsible for your husband’s actions. Mr. Sullivan is the last man I would allow to touch me,” she said, going to the door and holding it open wide. “Just go and leave me alone.”

  “My girl, you can’t order me out of a house my husband owns. But I am prepared to help you leave town.”

  “I wouldn’t accept help from you.”

  Opening her drawstring reticule, Mrs. Sullivan pursed her lips and removed a wad of bills and thrust them at Cheyenne. “There is enough here for you to take a train out of Santa Fe and to even keep you in food and lodging until you can find work.” She nodded at Cheyenne. “Take it!”

  “I pity you. Do you have enough money to buy off every woman your husband looks at?”

  “How dare you…you half-breed.”

  “You have insulted me in every way possible, and my pity grows thin. I just want you to leave.”

  “Don’t try to play innocent with me. I’ve seen you sashaying about town, drawing all the men’s interest. You aren’t fit to live around decent people.”