by Diana Palmer
Her stomach lurched. She yanked her hand away from Jackson’s and held it over her eyes. “Lord, I won’t know what to say to them. Turn around. I can’t do this.”
He pulled to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Then he unfastened his seat belt, slid over next to Maggie and hauled her onto his lap. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “I’ll be right there with you. They’re probably just as scared as you are, Maggie.”
“I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”
“A little. But I won’t tell a soul.”
Smiling at her own foolishness, she rubbed her cheek against the front of his shirt, taking comfort from his warmth and the strong, steady beating of his heart beneath her ear. She wished she could stay here all day. But, of course, she couldn’t. Her grandmother and aunt were waiting.
She gave him a quick, hard kiss for luck, then scooted off his lap and ordered him to drive on before she lost her nerve again. In what seemed like only a few seconds, he turned into a rutted driveway. Gnarled old cottonwood trees flanked both sides of the lane. When the house came into view, Maggie’s heart sank.
Small and shabby, it had the peeling paint and junk-filled yard of almost every other house on the reservation. But it wasn’t just any other house. Her mother had been born, taken her first steps and said her first words there. It was difficult to believe anyone, much less her own mother, could have started out in this decrepit little cottage and ended up in a gorgeous home in one of Denver’s most exclusive subdivisions.
“Are you ready?” Jackson asked as he shut off the engine.
No. She would never be ready for this, but it was too late for retreat. The front door opened. Two women stepped out onto the sagging porch and stood there, silently watching and waiting. Though they didn’t touch, an aura of unity surrounded them, as if they had stood on that porch many times, lending each other strength while they watched and waited for a loved one to return.
Maggie inhaled a deep breath, clutched her purse and the carton of cigarettes she’d brought as a traditional gift of tobacco for her grandmother to her chest and said, “Let’s go.”
She popped the door latch, climbed down and slowly crossed the yard, unable to take her gaze off the women whose blood she shared. Annie was an inch shorter than Rose, her face heavily lined by at least seventy years of sun and struggle. Her hair had a liberal sprinkling of gray among the darker strands, and she wore it pulled back in one long braid. She was thin to the point of gauntness, but she held her back straight and proud, and a keen intelligence shone from her black eyes.
Rose was a rounder, younger-looking version of Annie. She wore her hair in a similar style, but it was a thick, lustrous black that reflected the bright sunshine. She had the same proud bearing as her mother, and she studied Maggie with the same intense interest.
Maggie stopped at the foot of the steps, raising one hand to shade her eyes. Her mouth was as dry as the parched ground. Her heart was thumping so hard, everyone must be able to hear it. Then she felt a hard, reassuring arm wrap around her waist, steadying her.
She looked up at Jackson, found empathy and support in his wink, and abruptly felt her anxiety fade to a manageable level. It was the strangest sensation, as if by his mere presence he’d replenished her depleted supply of courage. She gave him a grateful smile, then turned back to her grandmother and aunt.
Finally able to see past her own fear, she suddenly noticed her grandmother’s. Annie’s chin was quivering. Her lips were clamped together. Her fingers were clasped in a tight knot in front of her abdomen. All those small clues formed a picture of a woman fighting to control a powerful emotion. And there was a desperate eagerness in Annie’s misty eyes that told Maggie the emotion was not rejection.
Clearing her throat, she climbed the first step. “Hello, Grandmother.”
As if those two quiet words had unlocked a set of floodgates, tears spilled from Annie’s eyes, leaving glistening tracks down her lined cheeks. Her hands jerked apart. She opened her arms in a silent invitation. Maggie ran up the last two steps and squeezed her eyes shut as her grandmother’s bony little arms closed around her in a fierce hug.
A moment later, Annie pulled back and raised her hands to Maggie’s face, tracing her features with trembling fingertips, smiling through her tears.
“Welcome, little one,” she whispered. “I never thought I would be blessed to see you again. You look like my Bevy.”
“Thank you,” Maggie murmured, blinking back tears of her own. “She was a beautiful lady.”
“Quit hoggin’ her, Mama,” Rose said. “I want a hug, too.”
Laughing, Maggie turned to her aunt and received another warm welcome. Then Rose took over, drawing Annie, Maggie and Jackson inside, leading the way to a cozy kitchen at the back of the house, talking constantly, as if she intended to make up for all the lost years in one afternoon.
Jackson elbowed Maggie in the ribs, gestured toward Rose with his thumb and whispered, “That’s where you got your gabbiness.”
“Oh, hush,” Maggie whispered back, but the thought pleased her immensely.
She’d noted many times before that no matter how poor a Cheyenne home might look on the outside, the inside was invariably neat and clean, and whatever food the people had was generously shared with visitors. Annie Little Deer’s home was no exception. Feeling too excited to eat, Maggie almost groaned when she saw the kitchen table.
Big dishes of vegetables and salads fought for space with heaping platters of beef, chicken and frybread. Four freshly baked pies sat on the counter beside the stove. Her grandmother and aunt must have been cooking nonstop since Jackson phoned this morning. The gesture touched Maggie deeply, and she did her best to do the meal justice.
Jackson and Rose carried most of the conversation while they were eating. When Rose stood to clear away the dirty dessert plates, however, Annie got up and brought a fat, dog-eared photo album to the table. Maggie and Jackson scooted their chairs closer for a better view of the book. Picture by picture, memory by memory, Annie revealed a part of Beverly’s life Maggie had never known.
There were photographs of Beverly as a young child, with Rose and their other sisters, Carol and Susan, playing with dolls, lined up on a horse’s back, having a water fight with their brothers, William and Henry. As the pages turned, the children grew into gangly adolescents and then into good-looking young men and women. Toward the end of the book, a heartbreakingly handsome young man began to appear in the photos with Beverly.
“Your father,” Annie said, “Daniel Speaks Softly.”
“What was he like?” Maggie asked.
“He was a good boy,” Annie said. “Polite, smart, ambitious. He could fix any kind of a machine. He loved your mother very much.”
“Then why did he leave her?”
“He got into an argument with his boss and lost his job. Couldn’t find another one, because the boss spread lies about him all over Whitehorn. Then he felt ashamed and started drinkin’.” Annie sighed and shook her head. “My Bevy, she tried real hard to make him stop, but it wasn’t no use. He just up and left one day. Didn’t even know you were on the way.”
Jackson pointed to a photo of Beverly, smiling down at a squalling infant in her arms. “Is that Maggie?”
Rose peered over Jackson’s shoulder and laughed when she saw the picture. “Oh, yeah. We were all crazy about that kid, but she had a set of lungs on her you could hear for miles.”
Maggie smiled over her shoulder at Rose, who reached out and affectionately ruffled her hair.
“And from what Wanda tells me, she still makes a lot of noise in certain places,” Rose said, with a wicked grin. “Like school district offices. We owe you big-time for that one, sweetie. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Maggie said.
Annie closed the album, then got up and pulled open a drawer. Returning to the table, she set a small, intricately beaded pouch shaped like a turtle in front of Maggie. “I made this for you when you were
born. I want you to have it.”
Maggie picked it up and studied both sides, feeling something hard, like a little stick, between the layers. “This is beautiful. What is it?”
“A charm to make you grow up healthy and protect you from evil. This is an old Cheyenne custom. When you have babies, I will make charms for them.”
“What’s inside it, Grandmother?”
“A piece of your navel cord. That’s what makes the medicine work.” Annie shot a sly grin at Jackson, then looked back at Maggie. “This Hawk kid, here—I think he might give you pretty babies. You like him?”
Maggie felt her face grow hot. She heard Jackson let out a deep, rough chuckle, but didn’t dare look at him. “Yes, I like him, Grandmother, but we haven’t known each other very long.”
“Pah!” Annie said, waving aside Maggie’s cautious words. “What’s to know? He’s a big, handsome fella. Got steady work, a nice house and a decent family. You could do a lot worse.”
“Thank you, Annie,” Jackson said.
She shook a bony finger at him. “Don’t get all conceited, Jackson Hawk. She could do a lot better than you, too. You get this girl of ours, I’ll expect you to take good care of her.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jackson said.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Maggie shot him a warning look. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, sure,” Annie agreed. “Most of us can. But it don’t hurt to have a good-lookin’ man around to give you them pretty babies.”
“Don’t give him any more ideas, Grandmother,” Maggie complained. “He’s got enough of his own.”
“He’s a randy one, eh?” Raising her eyebrows, Annie turned her scrutiny on Jackson again. “You behave yourself around our girl, Jackson Hawk. Show her respect, or her uncles will pay you a visit. You understand me?”
His eyes glinting with unholy glee, Jackson nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
Annie nodded back at him, then leaned forward, bracing her forearms on the table. “Tell me about your mother, Maggie. This Mr. Schaeffer she married—was he good to her?”
“Oh, yes,” Maggie said. “He’s a wonderful man. Would you like to see a picture of them together?”
“Please.”
Maggie dug her wallet out of her purse and pulled a photograph from it’s plastic sleeve. “This was taken at Lake Louise, up in Canada, about a year before she got sick.”
Annie accepted the picture, holding it carefully by the edges. Rose came over and stood behind her, laying one hand on Annie’s shoulder, as if in a gesture of comfort. Annie’s face contorted with grief.
After a moment of silent struggle, her expression cleared, and she said softly, “My Bevy looks happy. Like when she was a little girl.”
“Yeah, she does,” Rose said. “See what pretty clothes she’s wearing?”
Annie started to hand back the picture, but Maggie refused to take it. “I still have the negative. You keep that one, Grandmother.”
“Thank you.” Annie looked up at Maggie, then down at the photograph again. “You said she got sick?”
“She had breast cancer. The doctors did everything they could, but she never liked going to the doctor much, and they found it too late to help her.”
Annie’s voice softened to a hoarse whisper. “Did she…suffer?”
“It got bad toward the end,” Maggie said, “but she had the best care Dad and I could give her. We still miss her a lot.”
Gently laying the picture on the table, Annie said, “We also miss her, Maggie. I’m happy you finally came to see me. It’s like having a little piece of my Bevy back.”
“Did you know who I was that first day, when we met at the day-care center?” Maggie asked.
Annie nodded. “I was pretty sure.”
“Why didn’t you say something, Grandmother?”
“I didn’t know how much you knew, and I didn’t want to force a relationship on you, if you didn’t want to know us.”
“I didn’t know if you would want to see me,” Maggie said. “I only knew Mama came from this reservation, and that she never wanted me to come here. Can you tell me why she felt that way? Was there a family fight, or something like that?”
Annie stiffened, then turned her gaze away from Maggie. “It had nothing to do with the family. We loved Bevy and she loved us. She wanted you to have a better life. That is all I have to say.”
“But—”
“We will not speak of this again.” Annie pushed back her chair and stood, suddenly looking old and exhausted. “Thank you for coming to see me. You’ll come back for Wanda’s graduation dinner. You can meet the others then.”
In other words, here’s your hat, what’s your hurry? Maggie thought grimly. She looked to Jackson for guidance as to whether or not she should push for more information. He shook his head and got to his feet. Maggie exchanged a stilted goodbye with her grandmother and walked back to the front door.
She had almost reached the pickup when the door of the house opened behind her and Rose came out, softly calling her name.
“Wait, Maggie. Please.”
Maggie turned around in time to see her aunt reach the bottom step and jog across the short distance between them.
“I don’t want you to leave like this,” Rose said. “Mama didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“I know she didn’t, Aunt Rose. Don’t worry about it.”
Rose took Maggie’s right hand between both of hers and held on as if she feared her niece would run away. Anxiously searching Maggie’s face, she said, “Mama’s got real old-fashioned ideas about some things. You’re probably imagining something worse than what really happened to your mom.”
“Will you tell me?” Maggie asked.
“Sure, honey.” Rose looked over at Jackson. “This is kinda private, so we’re gonna go for a little walk, okay?”
“No problem,” he replied. “Take your time.”
Maggie gave him a grateful smile, then walked around the side of the house with her aunt.
Jackson stood beside his pickup until Maggie and Rose were out of sight. Then he climbed in behind the wheel, rolled down the windows and stretched his legs across the seat. Rose had said Maggie was probably imagining something worse than what had actually happened to Beverly, but the admission that something had indeed happened to Maggie’s mother worried him. Her remark about Annie’s being old-fashioned about some things made him suspect sex had been involved.
Women everywhere were vulnerable to male predators, but Indian women had always been especially helpless when it came to dealing with white men. Having grown up on a reservation, Rose was bound to have developed a stoic attitude toward the indignities Cheyenne women had often been forced to endure. But Maggie had grown up in an environment where women didn’t learn to accept such indignities. Would Rose understand that, if she was planning to tell Maggie her mother had been raped?
The longer they were gone, the more anxious he felt. After ten minutes, he climbed out of the pickup and rearranged the jumble of tools he always carried around in the back. After twenty minutes, he started to pace back and forth between the pickup and the gravel road. After thirty, he decided to go looking for them.
As he rounded the corner of the house, the women came out of a stand of willows fifty yards away. Rose had her arm around Maggie’s shoulders, but from this distance he couldn’t see much more than that. Wanting to give them the privacy they needed to finish their conversation, he backtracked before they spotted him and got into the pickup again.
Five minutes later Maggie climbed in beside him, her face pale and set. Reminding himself she would tell him what she’d learned if and when she felt like it, he turned the vehicle around and drove away. She sat utterly still, looking straight ahead with the unblinking stare of a shock victim.
Gritting his teeth against the rage he felt at seeing her so upset, Jackson stomped on the accelerator. She still hadn’t spoken by the time they arrived a
t his house, and she made no objection when he took her inside. Her hand was so icy in his, he was surprised she wasn’t shivering.
He led her to the sofa. She obediently sat at one end, pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them to her with both arms. Swearing under his breath, Jackson raced upstairs for a blanket, raced back to the living room and wrapped her up. Then he hurried out to the kitchen and made her a mug of strong, sweetened tea.
When he offered it to her, she looked up at him with a blank, shattered expression for a heartbeat, then slowly shook her head. Jackson set the cup on the coffee table, sat beside her and took both of her hands between his.
Briskly rubbing them, he said, “Maggie, honey, talk to me. What did Rose tell you?”
Maggie shook her head again, but then her face crumpled and a harsh, racking sob shuddered through her body. He pulled her into his arms and held her, wishing he could take away her pain and knowing he couldn’t. The tears came next, soaking his shirt while she gasped for air each time another sob shook her. And finally she raised her fists and pounded on his chest, crying, “No, no, no! Oh, Mama, no!”
Her energy spent, she sagged against him. Resting his cheek on the top of her head, Jackson held her, rocked her, murmured comforting words to her until even the silent weeping stopped. At last she pulled away, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice still raw with emotion.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He handed her the mug. When she’d taken a swallow, he asked, “Can you tell me what this is all about now?”
She took another swallow, then set the mug down and nodded.
“My, uh…my mother…” She choked, gulped, shook her head, as if in frustration.
“It’s all right,” Jackson said. “Take your time.”
“When I was born, my m-mother had to go into W-Whitehorn to the hospital.” She paused to inhale a deep breath. “She had to have a C-section because I was in the b-breach position.”
A sick feeling invaded the pit of Jackson’s stomach as he sensed what was coming, but he silently waited while she paused to take another breath.