Rosanne Bittner

by Paradise Valley

  Sage didn’t answer for a tense few minutes, and Maggie let him mull over his reply.

  “I expect you deserve to know more about me, so you can make up your mind once we get back to Paradise Valley,” he finally spoke up.

  Relieved, Maggie waited patiently for even more silent seconds, afraid one wrong word would change his mind.

  “I was raised by a Cheyenne mother and a white trapper father,” he told her then. “He was French, and I remember him being tall. I get my build from him, I guess. My mother’s name was Bending Flower Woman, and I have only good memories of her. I have no idea if my father is still alive. His name was Franco Cherborne. He left for parts unknown when I was about eight, right before Colorado volunteers attacked the perfectly peaceful camp where I lived with my mother at Sand Creek in southern Colorado. Their intent was to murder every last person there, mostly women, children, and elders. I watched them cut my mother’s belly open.” His voice dropped lower as he revealed the ugly memory.

  Dear God, Maggie thought.

  “I ran—an eight-year-old boy lost and scared. One of those volunteers chased me down and shot me.”

  Maggie drew her horse to a halt. “You were just a little boy!”

  “To them I was filth that needed to be eliminated.” Sage turned his horse and faced her. “The bullet grazed my neck in such a way that I fell unconscious and couldn’t move. White missionaries found me. When I came to, I was in their wagon.” He started riding again, and Maggie trotted her horse up beside him. “They kept me so sedated I couldn’t fight them or run,” Sage continued. “Even later, I couldn’t leave because I was partially paralyzed for several weeks. They took me to their headquarters in San Francisco, and I came to realize I was better off where I was for the time being. They tended my wound, fed me. By the time I was able to move around, I figured I wouldn’t know which direction to go if I did leave, and I was still just a kid, so I stayed because I had food and a roof over my head. They took good care of me. They schooled me, taught me about religion and all that, let me live with them—showed me off in church as their ‘saved’ Indian boy.”

  He hesitated, lighting a cheroot.

  “They sound like good people.”

  Sage grunted a rather evil laugh then took a draw on his smoke. “Yeah, well, I thought so at the time,” he continued. “I thought I meant something to them, believed they loved me. I came to think of them as my parents, loved and trusted them like parents. Trouble was, there was a wealthy family who lived up the street and often donated money to the church. They had a daughter about my age.”

  Maggie felt his instant tension. “Joanna?”

  He met her gaze, and there it was… the deepest hurt Maggie had ever seen in anyone’s eyes.

  “Joanna.” He turned away. “Her parents invited me and my so-called Christian adoptive parents to their house a few times—I believe more as a curiosity than anything else—and to show friends and neighbors the good their money was doing.” He snickered. “Saving the savages, so to speak.”

  He shifted in his saddle, and Maggie could tell he was struggling with anger.

  “What they didn’t realize was Joanna and I felt a real attraction to each other. We began making secret plans to meet. She was—I don’t know—about sixteen, I guess. I was eighteen. One thing led to another, and we got caught in some pretty heavy kissing and in a rather compromising position behind a barn. We were dressed and all, but what they saw was enough for the good Christian people who raised me to instantly condemn me.”

  He rubbed a hand across his forehead and adjusted his hat again. Maggie sensed his restlessness was a way to keep from exploding.

  “I was dragged away and severely beaten by several men. I think they would have hung me if they could have gotten away with it. Joanna was promptly sent to some fancy finishing school in the East. My so-called parents who ‘loved’ their fellow man banned me from church and said they were disappointed that all their years of teaching hadn’t rid my savage soul of Satan’s lusts. They gave me ten dollars, told me I was old enough to make my own way in the world, and out the door I went. I think they had orders to get rid of me or lose whatever donations Joanna’s parents made to their church.”

  Maggie closed her eyes, aching for him.

  “Life sure can punch you in the gut sometimes,” Sage continued with a sigh, “and I’ve been punched more than once. I headed back toward where I’d come from, not sure what the hell I’d do. Most of the Cheyenne were on reservations, which I wanted no part of. I did find one renegade band—lived with them awhile, even raided with them. But I’d lived the civilized way too long, and I knew the time would soon come when they, too, would end up on a reservation, and me with them, if I didn’t light out. So I left. I ended up in northern Utah working for a rancher who turned out to be a horse thief. His ranch was a way station for stolen stock—horses and cattle both. They treated me well, befriended me, so I fell in with that life—helped steal horses and cattle—even robbed a stage once. I learned to like liquor and bawdy women. Hell, I’d gone so far to the other side of life that no respectable woman would have anything to do with me anyway.”

  He stared ahead at distant mountains.

  “Through it all, I never forgot Joanna—always wondered if she thought about me anymore.” He turned to Maggie. “After one last robbery, I gave up my share of the profit in return for some real fine horses and a few head of cattle, and I headed away from outlaw country. I wanted to find a place to settle. I brought three men I knew I could trust. You’ve already met them—Joe Cable, Bill Summers, and Hank Toller.”

  “And you settled in Paradise Valley.”

  Sage nodded. “I came upon that valley, and I knew that was where I wanted to be. That’s why I named it Paradise. It was far enough from civilization to let me mind my own business, and far enough from outlaw country to not worry too much about getting robbed. I promised the men that if they helped me build a ranch, they’d get their fair share of whatever I earned. When I filed a claim on the land, I used the white name my missionary parents gave me, Sage—for finding me amid sagebrush, I guess—but the last name they gave me was theirs—Graham. I figured I’d have an easier time with claims using that name, which I did. I got the land—one hundred sixty-two acres under the Homestead Act. The men with me each filed for another hundred sixty-two acres adjoining it, turned them over to me, and we kept claiming more and more land through fake names, then putting it in my name until—well, I just kept spreading out and finding ways to keep it going. Now it’s a good sixty thousand acres. I’ve never used the name Graham for anything besides claims. I hated the missionaries for trying to make me deny my Indian blood. My Cheyenne name was Lightfoot. From what I remember, they called me that because when I was born, one foot was whiter than the other, I guess.”

  He smoked quietly then, and Maggie couldn’t imagine the hurt he’d suffered—the terror a little boy would feel at watching his mother being mutilated, the abandonment of his father, and then being banished by the only other people he’d learned to trust.

  “I guess I grew out of the white foot thing because there’s no difference in my feet now.” He looked at Maggie and smiled sadly. “Anyway, I kept the name and built the ranch, and I eventually built the bigger log house I live in now, hoping to settle with a wife and have kids.”

  Maggie winced with pain in her leg as she shifted in her own saddle to get more comfortable. “Obviously, you found Joanna again?”

  He smashed out the cheroot against a concha on his saddle and put the stub back in a vest pocket to smoke later.

  “Oh, I found her all right. I should have left well enough alone, but I wrote a letter to the Grahams back in San Francisco to let them know how I was doing. I wanted to make sure they knew I’d made something of myself in spite of what they did to me—that I was worth a lot more than the ten bucks they gave me when they turned me out. In the letter I asked them to please let Joanna know where she could find me, if she cared t
o. A few months later, I got a message that a Joanna Hawkins was in Cheyenne—wanted to know if I’d come for her.”

  He leaned forward and rested his arms on his saddle horn.

  “I figured the Grahams must have told her about me after all, but later, I learned Joanna found the letter after they died. Either way, I couldn’t believe I’d found her. I charged down to Cheyenne as fast as I could—and there she was, at the rooming house where she said she’d be—and God, she was the picture of heaven—ten times prettier than I’d remembered.”

  He looked away. Storm bent his head to graze.

  “She fell into my arms like all the years in-between never happened—said how glad she was that I wrote that letter—said she never forgot me.”

  Maggie could feel his mood darkening.

  “She claimed she still loved me and wanted to marry me—share Paradise Valley with me, raise a family there. We married two days later. I took her back to the ranch, and the men were all struck by how pretty she was—things were fine… for a few weeks.”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t long before she began asking why we didn’t go to town more often… why we had to live so far out in the wilds… why couldn’t we live in Cheyenne or Rock Springs, since I was the boss and could just tell the men what to do and let them take care of it. She wanted a fancier house… wanted to throw lavish parties… wanted to order dresses from back East… wanted to spend weekends in Cheyenne—maybe help establish a library in our name—an opera house.”

  He took off his wide-brimmed hat and ran a hand through his hair. “As I’m sure you know by now, it’s obvious I’m not cut out for the fancy life,” he continued, repositioning his hat. “And an ex-outlaw who’s half Indian isn’t exactly welcome in the circles Joanna liked to run in. She gradually got more demanding, showing her true colors and the real reason she’d looked me up. Once she threw it back at me that maybe her parents were right—that the Indian in me would never go away, and I’d never behave like a white man, no matter how much money I had.”

  He pulled on Storm’s reins to stop the horse’s grazing.

  “Finally, after another big argument, she admitted her parents were both dead, and they were so far in debt that the estate left her nothing. She almost married another man in San Francisco, but someone told him she’d once been caught behind a barn with an Indian, so he left her. She was desperate, so she came to Cheyenne to find me—figured if I had such a big ranch, I must have decent money, and that’s all she really wanted. She hated ranch life and the smell of cattle, and the fact that I, along with half my men, were former outlaws. I hated her so much that to keep myself from wrapping my hands around her pretty throat and squeezing until her face was purple, I threw her and her things into a wagon—drove her to Cheyenne—never saying one word. I drew money out of the bank, took her to a lawyer for a quick divorce, handed her the money, and told her to have a good life in San Francisco. That was a year ago and the end of our relationship… until I got that damn letter.”

  He kicked Storm into a faster gait. “And that’s that, Maggie. That’s the whole story, and I’m done talking about it. It’s not easy for a man like me to admit he’s been roped and tied and castrated by a woman.”

  Maggie watched his back as he rode away. How could any woman do to a man what Joanna had done to Sage? No wonder he didn’t like talking about it. No wonder he wasn’t sure about marriage.

  Why on earth had Joanna written him about coming back? What did she want this time? The thought crushed Maggie’s heart. Joanna still had a hold on the man—of that Maggie had no doubt. And from Sage’s description, Joanna was beautiful, sophisticated, and educated… all the things Maggie wasn’t. She figured she was pretty enough… but not beautiful in the way someone like Joanna must be.

  Maggie decided that all she had was the here and now, and she vowed to love Sage Lightfoot as best she could—the way he deserved to be loved—until the day came that she would likely lose him to another woman… or because of the secret life she carried.

  Twenty-four

  Maggie studied the scattering of buildings below. Atlantic City. On this journey through the most rugged country she’d ever seen, she still found it astounding that anyone stayed in such remote places after the mines played out, but according to Sage, that’s what happened here. It didn’t look like much of a “city,” but maybe they could find a place to stay where they could sleep in a bed instead of on the ground.

  She rode behind Sage, wondering whether they would share a bed if they did find one for the night. He’d not come near her since they made love clear back near Flaming Gorge. That sagging old cabin would forever hold a special place in her heart, but Sage had followed through with his determination not to get her pregnant, which filled her with guilt. She could probably tell him now that she was carrying, and he’d believe it was his, but she could not bring herself to deceive him that way.

  For now, she’d watch him—love him—drink in the man’s masculinity and enjoy the safety of his arms. There he was, set against the vast, barren hillsides that surrounded the weathered, mostly tin-roofed buildings below. Sage was a man who fit this land like the wild mustangs. She’d grown to love this rugged, unforgiving, yet splendidly beautiful country, almost as much as she loved Sage Lightfoot. Every day brought new scenery and astounding beauty. Jagged mountains lined their surroundings all the way here. They’d ridden along ridges hundreds of feet high, below which ran the Green River like a satin ribbon, winding its way into an endless horizon.

  The nights were cold, with black skies that exploded with stars—the sound of wolves and coyotes howling and yipping throughout the distant hills and canyons. The almost constant wind groaned through thick stands of pine and aspen, or whipped at a person wildly when riding through open, endless grassland.

  Wyoming did something to a person. It had a way of making its way into a man’s… or a woman’s… blood and heart… or was it men like Sage who got into the blood and heart? Men out here tended to blend right in—big, sometimes mean, with jagged edges—yet they held a strange code of honor. They were a confusion of personalities. Even Whitey, who’d probably shoot a man for looking at him wrong, had proved he could be trusted.

  And then there were women like Betsy, who seemed relaxed and unafraid, even though she lived in that cabin with a bunch of outlaws. Maggie suspected not one of them had ever laid a hand on the woman wrongly… except for Cutter. Betsy was probably glad the man never returned. When Maggie remembered what Sage had done to Cutter, it didn’t seem possible that he could be so gentle with her just hours later.

  How did a woman handle a man like that? She’d never known anyone quite like him, a man capable of extremes when it came to violence and goodness. She remembered his remark about how some men were basically good, and some were bad through and through, and she’d need to learn to tell the difference.

  Sage held up, waiting for Maggie to ride up beside him.

  “We should be able to find a room at Ma Pilger’s place,” he told her. “If Ma is still there. She was in her late forties when I stayed at her rooming house a couple of times. Even then, she looked more like seventy.”

  He cast Maggie a sideways glance. “That’s what the dry air out here can do to you.” Maggie figured he was thinking of everything he could to make sure she knew what she was getting into if she stayed in this country. “Do you think any of the men we’re looking for could be down there?” she asked Sage.

  “Hard to say, but from here on, we need to keep our eyes open and stay alert. They could be anywhere now, unless they’ve turned on us again and headed for other parts. My gut tells me they’re here in outlaw country though.”

  “How long should we keep looking?”

  “Till they’re found,” he answered matter-of-factly. “If we have to head south again, I’ll leave you at the ranch and go on from there.”

  “But you promised—”

  “I’ve kept my promise,” he interrupted. “But the t
ime will come when you’ve been living like this long enough. I’ll take you back, and that’s that. No more arguments.”

  His tone told Maggie this wasn’t the time to protest. They reached the outskirts of Atlantic City, and Sage halted Storm and shifted in the saddle, meeting her gaze again. “We’ll get a room together tonight to make things look right.” Sage adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. “And whether you like it or not, there are women down there who can fix me up with something we can use for protection, so I intend to pay them a visit.”

  Maggie felt the heat of the flush that came to her cheeks. She hated the thought of him with that kind of woman. “Just don’t stay too long. I’m sure they’d like to fix you up in more ways than one. You’re an awfully handsome man, you know.”

  Sage grinned and shook his head, then turned his horse and headed into town.

  Maggie followed, studying their surroundings as Sage halted the horses in front of a dry goods store. “Might as well stock up on a few things. Then you can rest, clean up, and change while I have a look around town.”

  And visit the prostitutes, Maggie thought. Two women dressed in neat frocks and wearing bonnets stood conversing near the doorway of the supply store. Both studied her curiously as Maggie climbed down from her horse. She felt self-conscious of the way she was dressed. She needed another bath after several more days on the trail. She nodded to them as she followed Sage inside the store. They nodded in return, and as Maggie stepped through the doorway, she heard one whisper, “It’s a girl!”

  Much as Maggie preferred wearing pants for days of riding horseback, she was eager to look like a woman again, partly to remind Sage she could be pretty when cleaned up. He’d promised they would eat in a real restaurant tonight, a relief from the work of campfire cooking.

  The store clerk approached Maggie. “Help you, sir?”

  Maggie pushed her hat back slightly and met his gaze.

  “Oh, sorry! I mean… ma’am?”