Eventually, and with Meg’s encouragement, he found a way.
At a dinner party Etta held for friends in Boulder, Win responded to casual inquiries by the wife of a history professor about his surveying days with a colorful tale, and soon had captured everyone’s attention. As the evening ended, someone invited him to lecture to his political-science students.
In the hotel room that night, Meg mentioned that speaking to a large forum might be cathartic.
“I hope you accept the invitation, Win.” She brushed her thick hair as he undressed for bed.
“We have a ranch to run.”
“They can manage—Charlie and Wash. This is important, and you tell wonderful stories.”
“I don’t want to entertain,” he said, yanking off the tie he’d been forced by convention to wear. “I want to change opinion.”
“Well, every conversation around you paused as you told Mrs. Bennington about hunting caribou with the Athabascan. Once you have their attention, sharing the challenges Indians face would engender sympathy—I’m sure of it.”
“What if I’d told them about Albert Rothenberg’s scare with the Crow?”
Meg laughed. “You’re incorrigible.” She put down her brush and crawled into bed. “I’m serious, Win. Educated ears are influential ones. Take advantage and speak your mind—judiciously, of course.”
“ ‘Judicious’ has never been one of my better traits.”
“Thank goodness!” She pulled him into bed with her. His initial surprise turned to a grin as Win realized what she was suggesting.
In his embrace after their lovemaking, Meg continued campaigning on the professor’s behalf. “Tell your stories and share what you know, Win,” she said, tugging at the disheveled sheet. “I believe you could change opinion.”
Win pulled the bed linens up to cover her bare shoulder, his warmth penetrating through the covers. “Gray Wolf once said that everything has its own time.”
“Are you saying you agree it’s time to speak?”
“Maybe so. You’re very convincing. You aren’t trying to get rid of me, are you?”
“Not a chance!”
He accepted the professor’s invitation. More began to arrive as his reputation for giving engaging lectures grew.
Win carried his message to anyone who would listen, cautioning against shortsighted, simple answers—even exposing the problems frequently caused by well-intentioned policies. Some conservationists were surprised to learn their noble plans to preserve large tracts of land from exploitative developers often meant that Indians living within the borders of protected land became trespassers, and their hunting practices were considered poaching. Becoming aware of the risk of alienating important allies, he learned to use his affable nature and enthralling stories to mollify stubborn minds before he criticized misguided policies. Folks loved listening to him.
Win became known in political circles. Some encouraged him to run for office, but he declined, modestly citing lack of legal knowledge. Privately, he told Meg that he disliked politicians too much ever to become one, and he’d surely cause fist-fights on the floor of Congress. He preferred his life at home, anyway. Meg didn’t argue with that.
In 1898, Win was speaking at the newly established Colorado Chautauqua Association in Boulder when their lives, once again, turned up on end.
Charlie rushed into the barn, where Meg was saddling a stock horse. “Ma, you’ve got to come to town with me, right now. Hurry.”
“Charlie, don’t scare me. What’s going on?” But she cinched the strap and mounted.
“Everything’s OK. Believe me. But I can’t say any more. Please, just come.”
Meg and Charlie’s horses loped into Paradise. Georgia, Mick, and a teenaged girl emerged from their store. Meg gasped and dismounted.
Without a word, the girl handed her an old, tattered letter. It read:
May 5, 1882
Dear Mrs. Dawson,
The child with this letter belongs to Winston Avery. He does not know he has a brought a baby girl into this world, but this is not his fault. I did not tell him I was carrying his child, and left the riverboat before he returned. I have no doubt he would have made me an honorable woman, but it appears that I must meet my Maker on different terms. I delivered at the Sisters of Mercy convent. They promised me they would bring the baby to you. I named her Virginia, after Win’s mother, but please call her Ginny. I like that name better.
I was jealous of you because of the way Win talked about you. You fairly walk on water in his eyes, and it made me angry that he loved you when he could have loved me. I have confessed to the priest here, as I lay dying, that I lured Win into my bed with the intention of making him forget you. All it did was produce this little life you see here. I know Win will show up at your door someday, and thought he should know his own flesh and blood. I know you will care for the child. The way he talked about you and your husband and your boys, it sounded like a better place for my baby than drifting through life on a riverboat.
I regret many things in my life, but bringing his daughter into the world is not one of them. When she is old enough, please tell her that her mother tried to be a good person and do the right thing.
These were the last words of Miss Jeannette Bordeaux, singer on the Missouri Star riverboat, as dictated to Sister Mary Margaret of the Sisters of Mercy convent, Omaha, Nebraska.
Stunned, Meg stared at the date: May 1882. What happened the year before that? Win had come from Washington, said he took the riverboat, and met Jeannette. He told Jeb about her. Win and Meg talked about her before they married. May 1882. She looked up. “This letter is sixteen years old. This woman is writing to me about a baby just born.”
“I’m the baby in the letter, ma’am. I’m Winston Avery’s daughter.”
Her beautiful brown hair, the cut of her chin—of course she was. She looked just like him. Meg wanted to rush to her, a wave of love washing over her. Her eyes filled with tears, at which point Georgia stepped in.
“Well, now that the initial shock is over, let’s go in and talk this out. Ginny, I told you she was going to be happy to meet you.” Georgia put her arms around both of them and ushered them into the house. “You men stay out here. We women have a lot to talk about in private.”
Meg could hardly breathe as Ginny explained how it happened that so many years would pass before even she knew her true identity. “According to Sister Mary Margaret’s account, she intended on bringing me to you right away. But after my mother—this Miss Bordeaux—died, our town was hit by a storm and a tornado ripped across the county. It caused so much damage that every person was called on to help with the injured. The sisters at the convent were needed, and it just wasn’t practical to leave right away. I was temporarily placed with a mother who lost her own baby in the storm. By the time the town had picked itself up and the sisters could leave, my new mother wouldn’t give me up. She’d lost her only child. They didn’t have the heart to take me away.”
“Why now?” Meg asked, but she already knew the answer. She saw it in the girl’s eyes.
“Mama and Poppy passed on. I found the letter in Mama’s things.”
“I’m so sorry, honey.” Meg reached over to squeeze her hand.
“Thank you, but I’m managing. When I found the letter, I went to the convent to confirm with Sister Mary Margaret that I was the child in the letter. She confessed she’d always been torn between not honoring Miss Bordeaux’s wishes and knowing I had a good home. I remember her looking in on me growing up.”
“You’ve been through so much.”
“Not really, ma’am. I’ve had a good life. Better, I think, than a life on a riverboat.”
“Still, you are very brave to come way out here to find me. I hope you like it here—”
“Oh, I’m not staying, Mrs. Dawson. I don’t expect anything from you. The letter just made me curious. Mama and Poppy didn’t have any other children, so I’m obligated to no one. I figured, why not have a
little adventure?” Ginny spread her arms out in a gesture so familiar that Meg’s own hand flew to her mouth. She was her father’s daughter. “What? Have I done something wrong?”
Georgia answered for them both. “No, honeybee, you’re just the spittin’ image of your father, that’s all. You don’t need some letter to tell us who you are. I can see right—”
“Wait,” Meg interrupted. “Ginny, you called me Mrs. Dawson. Georgia, didn’t you tell her?”
“Heavens, no. I’m no gossip. That’s your story to tell.”
“You picked a fine time to reform.” Meg smiled at her friend before turning to Ginny. “Mr. Dawson died ten years ago. I’m Mrs. Avery now. I’m married to your father.”
“Oh, my.” Ginny’s eyes grew wide with either pleasant surprise or shock, Meg wasn’t sure. “I wasn’t expecting this. Look, I came out here just to see this part of the country. I didn’t think he’d actually be here. I was just going to wander by the Dawson ranch, but when I asked for directions, Mrs. Carter here got all excited, and then that Charlie fellow walked in and got all excited . . . I didn’t mean to stir everybody up. I best be going . . . This is getting complicated.” Ginny rose.
“Oh, no! Don’t go, please!” Meg tried not to sound desperate. Ginny had to stay, at least until Win came home. He’d be back in just a couple of days, Meg said. Ginny could stay at the ranch and meet everyone.
It took Georgia, Mick, Charlie, and Meg to convince Ginny to come back to the ranch, but, in the end, she accepted their offer, all the while insisting she had no intention of staying.
“Ginny, honey, this is Charlie’s wife, Leezie, and their son, John,” Meg said when they walked into the kitchen. Leezie shifted John to her other hip and looked curious, but nodded politely. “Anne Wallace is the best cook in the county. And this is Wash. He’s a member of our family, too.” Meg turned to everyone. “This is Ginny, Win’s daughter.”
While everyone uttered surprise, Ginny looked quizzically at Wash.
“I’m Pawnee. Do I frighten you?”
“No. Pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand.
Charlie saved Ginny from the onslaught of questions and told everyone her story.
“I’m so sorry about your ma and pa,” Leezie said to Ginny.
“Thank you. I’m managing.”
“That lace on your collar is coming loose. Would you like me to fix it?”
“I’ve got some fresh gingerbread,” Anne said. “Let me cut you a piece.”
The family surrounded Ginny with attention. Soon, Leezie handed the baby to Charlie and took Ginny by the hand to show her to her room.
Meg excused herself and ran up to the piñon tree.
“We have the girl we always wanted, Jeb! She’s Win’s daughter. Remember Jeannette, the woman Win told you about? She had his little girl. She’s so pretty; she has beautiful brown hair and Win’s eyes—oh, Jeb, she looks just like him! She’s lost the people who raised her, but don’t worry, Gus, life hasn’t scraped away her sparkle.”
I hope she’ll stay, for your sake, Meggie.
“Me, too, Jeb. I hope so, too.” She wanted Win’s daughter to stay and allow them to love her—to protect her. It would be as natural as breathing.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX: WIN
Dawson-Avery ranch, two days later
Coming home held different meaning, now, from Win’s earlier years roaming the wilderness. No longer just a visitor, he surveyed the healthy crop of timothy and checked the repairs he and Charlie made to a section of road that had washed out during the spring rains. With contented pride, he continued home. The thrill of seeing Meg never changed. Win rode across the low foothills, picking up his pace as he anticipated her warm welcome.
He knew, somehow, that their lives had altered as soon as he caught sight of the ranch. Meg sat on the porch swing, waiting for him. The dark-haired girl from his recurring dreams sat next to her. The vision had teased him through the years. He’d never understood it. But the vision was clear now, unmistakable. The girl with pretty, brown hair was his daughter.
They smiled at him as he bounded up the porch steps.
EPILOGUE: MEG
Dawson-Avery ranch, 1927
Ginny lived with Win and Meg until she married. She gave birth to a daughter, whom they named Jameson.
Win and Meg traveled occasionally in their senior years, but didn’t wander too far from home. Win continued to address conservation groups that became popular when Teddy Roosevelt was president, and lectured at universities. His favorite story—the one he told most often—was about meeting a curious Arapaho named Gray Wolf, who had seen a white woman ride horseback better than most men. He told Meg that when he’d won over the audience, he’d remind his listeners that the plight of the American Indian had not yet been resolved satisfactorily. Occasionally he complained that he’d never change opinion, but Meg assured him real change took time.
Before Gray Wolf died, he attended one of Win’s lectures. He sat next to Meg in the audience with his rough, gnarled hand held gently in her own. Win said he thought he saw Jeb in the audience, too, and Gray Wolf and Meg looked at each other and smiled—it came as no surprise to either one of them.
Eventually, Win declined invitations to speak, claiming that travel had become too difficult.
One spring, just before the lilacs bloomed, Win died. He caught a cold that winter and wasn’t able to shake it. He and Meg spent hours by the fire. She read every book they had in their library out loud while he rested. She buried him in the family plot up by the old piñon tree, leaving a space for herself in between Jeb and Win.
She had been left behind, Meg complained. Gus, Jeb, and Win were having way too much fun up at the saloon, drinking whiskey and playing cards. Her grandchildren only knew her as a gray-haired, wrinkled old woman, although her children may have noticed how her blue eyes still danced when she spoke about the people she loved, both living and gone. None of them had known her as a young, spirited woman, racing their grandfathers across the Colorado high plains, letting go of the reins and spreading her arms wide, riding her horse with perfect balance. But she remembered.
Meg sat on the porch swing. A breeze lifted the pages of the open book in her lap. They fluttered back and forth, as if an impatient spirit reading along was nudging her to continue. Meg rested her reading glasses on the pages to quiet them. The book didn’t hold her interest. Today she preferred the company of her memories—memories as rich as any story in a book. She closed her eyes and, with her toe, set the porch swing in motion and slowly rocked back and forth. She thought of the day Jeb finished it and proudly watched her test it for the first time. He said it would last generations. He was right.
Close by, two pine finches chirped raucously at each other, while, in the distance, a meadowlark sang its lilting, melodious song. The breeze gave up on the pages and swirled through the lilac bushes. It picked up the familiar scent and laid it gently in her lap like a gift. Lilacs always reminded her of Win. The wrinkles on the woman’s face deepened as she smiled, like soft, worn folds of a love letter saved for years, reread and refolded hundreds of times.
Every room in the house, except the porch, had changed over the years to accommodate the needs of the growing family. The porch, however, was the welcoming arms of the home—the first to embrace family and friends when they arrived, and the last to let go of them when they left. It cradled the weary and comforted the brokenhearted. It was the place where joy was shared and burdens were lifted. It was where Meg loved to sit and rock and remember.
The telegram in her apron pocket said her granddaughter was arriving today, bringing good news. The breeze persisted in trying to get her attention and loosened a strand of her thick, gray hair, tossing it about, teasing her, unwilling to be ignored. The woman brushed the hair from her face with the same patience she had quieted the restless pages and grinned. Someone was here with her, waiting.
She opened her eyes, sat up straighter, and peered down the road as a
brand new 1927 Model T Ford rumbled into view. Her granddaughter pulled into the yard and honked the horn, causing Meg to jump with surprise, but then she tilted her head back and laughed at herself.
“Jamie, honey, you sure know how to make an entrance!” Meg clapped her weathered hands together as the young woman turned off the engine and hopped out. “Look at you, driving that modern machine!”
“This will be old news by next year. Ford’s making a new model.” Jamie winked at her grandmother. “I got a good price.”
Meg laughed and held out her arms. The young woman ran up the porch steps like a little girl to receive her hug. “Oh, Grandma Meg, it’s wonderful to see you!”
“I hear you have good news.”
Jamie sat down next to her on the swing. She brushed her own short, bobbed hair from her face. “It’s done, Grandma. Your wish came true. I’ve got the papers with me. Do you want to see them?”
The old woman took her granddaughter’s hand. “No need. I believe you if you say they’re in order. We’ve been waiting a long time for this day.”
“ ‘Protecting what you love is as natural as breathing,’ you’ve always said.”
Meg tilted her head at Jamie. She squeezed the hand of Win’s true legacy and then looked up into the foothills and smiled wistfully. “Let’s go tell the boys.”
Meg had been waiting for this last loose end. She took Jameson’s arm and they walked slowly up the hill to the piñon tree.
Gray Wolf never became a US citizen, but, in 1924, Native Americans were given citizenship without having to give up their tribal alliance. Gray Wolf’s grandson, the son of Warrior Travels Far and patriarch of a small Arapaho family, now legally owned the canyon and mountain just beyond the Dawson ranch. Jameson had the legal paperwork in hand.
Now they were on their way to the old piñon tree to tell the good news to Gus, Win, and Jeb. Meg was glad everyone else was busy and she could be alone with Jamie. She had grown accustomed to her grandmother speaking to her ancestors and was the most amenable to her peculiar ways. When they reached the top of the hill, Jamie helped Meg get comfortable on the weathered bench. Then she explained the legal contract out loud to her, “So the boys can hear, too,” Meg asked. Jamie finished and fell silent.
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