Cherished Moments

by Anita Mills

  “Comes the king!” someone yelled from outside.

  A servant in royal Stewart livery dashed into the room and skidded to a stop. Behind him, four men struggled beneath the weight of a gilded throne. When the impressive chair was lowered to the floor, yet another servant unfurled a narrow carpet.

  The tension in the room grew as thick as a fog. The tartan-clad chieftains adjusted the chains on their fancy badger sporrans. Fiona excused herself to check on the staff. Edward held her back with a murmured, “You always did fuss over a perfectly clean castle and a well-ordered staff. Leave it be, love.”

  Lily and Hugh shared expectant glances.

  A moment later, the king of England strolled into the room. Draped in a dazzling mantle of sky blue velvet lined in white taffeta, he was a figure to behold and admire. He wore a full black wig beneath a cap adorned with white plumes.

  Lily and Fiona executed deep curtsies, and the men swept off their hats and went down on a knee.

  “Arise, lords and ladies.” His lofty gaze settled on his elder son. “Lord Hugh, we presume.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty. Welcome to Blackburn Keep.”

  The king moved to the throne and allowed his servants to arrange his robes both before and after he sat down. His bejeweled fingers dangled over the arms of the massive chair.

  Lily glowed with pride as Hugh presented her to the king. “My wife, sire, do you give us your blessings.”

  King Charles admired Lily with the experienced and notorious eye of a man accustomed to appreciating the female form. She did not wither beneath his scrutiny; she was too busy with her own. She found him handsome, to be sure, but toilworn for a man of fifty. The differences between him and Hugh were as striking as their resemblances. The king’s chin bore a cleft, which Hugh’s did not. Hugh possessed a stronger, squarer jaw, and his lips were more suited to a smile. But their noses were identical, as was the shade of their eyes.

  The king coughed delicately. “If you’ve come to flatter us, lass, you succeeded admirably.”

  Lily blushed. Hugh chuckled.

  Turning slightly, a royal brow lifted, the king stared at Hugh. “You find us entertaining, pup?”

  “Nay, sire. Those are same words I spoke to her, when first she clamped eyes on me.”

  A rakish smile made the king look younger than his years and befitting his scandalous reputation. “We are told you plan to return to the Virginia Colony.”

  He took Lily’s hand and placed it on his arm. “We will make our home there.”

  “We could command you to stay.”

  “True. Or you could wish us well and know that as loyal servants we do your bidding in the colonies.”

  “You will breed our grandchildren there?”

  “And name the first son for you.”

  The pleased king pulled one of three rings from his right hand. It was a rampant lion set with an emerald the size of fat pea. “Bestow him with this, Blackburn, and enlarge him with the title of viscount…” At a loss, he stared at his hand.

  “Westward, perhaps?” Hugh said.

  “Ah, Westward, indeed. Viscount Westward. We like it well.”

  Hugh took the ring and bowed. “Thank you for your generosity.”

  The king nodded, fanning the plumes in his hat. Then his attention strayed. “Hamilton,” he said, beckoning Edward to him.

  Lily and Hugh returned to their place near Lachlan MacDonnel and watched Edward lead Fiona to the throne.

  “Do you bless this wedding between Blackburn and your daughter?”

  “Heartily so, Your Majesty. If it contents you.”

  The king wagged a finger at him. “We will have a pledge of peace from you and the MacDonnels, or your heads will rest on pikes.”

  Fiona gasped and looked from her husband to her father. The latter hurried to her side.

  “Think you, Lady Fiona, that you can keep peace between these two men?”

  “Nay.” When the men on either side of her gaped in awe, she added, “Only Your Majesty can make that command.”

  Obviously impressed by both her honesty and her confidence, the king glared at the two chieftains. “We have made a similar command before, but rowdies that you are, you have chosen not to heed us. What say you to that treason?”

  MacDonnel went down on a knee and placed his jeweled dirk at the feet of the king. “Your presence is enough to gain my oath, Your Grace. I swear never again to make war on the Hamiltons.”

  Hamilton did the same, making sure the two blades touched. “For me also, Your Grace. The MacDonnels may come in peace to Arran.”

  Hugh put his cheek against Lily’s and whispered, “I say we excuse ourselves and be about getting my father that grandchild.”

  Scandalized and thrilled at once, she turned so her lips brushed his. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “’Tis nothing compared to what I intend to do later, my love.”

  Love. As she gazed into his eyes, Lily saw their future unfold. She said a silent prayer of thanks to God and another to Fiona, who had sent Hugh to Arran, bearing flowers from the sea.

  Author’s Note

  Although largely unsung, the French pinasse, or pinnace, as the Dutch and English called it, occupied an important place in the history of sailing. Swifter and more versatile than the apple-bellied giants of her age, the pinasse was employed in a variety of roles. Her maneuverability and shallow draft made her a perfect choice for scouting and exploration expeditions. The French square rigged their pinasses, and, with only twenty men for crew, successfully plied the trade routes to the American colonies. The Dutch version of the seventeenth-century pinnace became the prototype for the sloop of war.

  Because the Scots often associated themselves with the French, I styled the Valiant Lily after the pinasse.

  Indian Summer

  Rosanne Bittner

  Warm were the days when we were together,

  And warm was his heart.

  Like the hot, fiery but elusive wind,

  He caressed me; but I could not catch him.

  He touched me,

  My body, my heart, my spirit.

  I will not forget my Cheyenne lover,

  Or that Indian summer…

  Chapter One

  “Hold still, Evelyn.” Margaret Gibbons quickly scrubbed her four-year-old daughter. It was so much easier bathing her here at the pond several yards behind their cabin rather than using precious water that had to be hauled by the barrel from Fort Reno. She scooped water into a deep wooden bowl and poured it over Evelyn to rinse her. The child’s long, blond hair, a mass of curls when it was dry, hung in wet ringlets nearly to her waist. Margaret thought how pretty her daughter was, what a joy to her heart. She had lost two babies since having Evelyn, and she feared this was the only living child she would ever have.

  Evelyn laughed with joy at being naked and wet, her big blue eyes dancing with merriment, baby teeth showing through puckery little lips, dimples in her cheeks. Margaret envied her child’s freedom. It was such a hot day that she wished she, too, could strip off her clothes and fall into the water; but even though the pond was hidden by tall grass and a grove of young oak trees, and beyond that a patch of sunflowers, she still felt she would be taking too much of a chance. A hundred or so men roamed the fort grounds only a half mile away, but that was not the only danger. Just south of the fort was the Darlington Indian Agency, occupied mostly by Southern Cheyenne.

  Her husband had given her strict orders not to come here alone, but stifling, late-summer temperatures had caused her to throw all caution to the wind. Disobeying his order made her feel she had some say in her life. Ever since she could remember, her parents and her husband were telling her how she must feel, think, behave, speak. Here, alone at the pond, she could just be herself. She could laugh and play with her daughter. She could let the combs out of her hair if she wanted. It was long and blond and wavy like Evelyn’s, but she was never allowed to let it hang loose and free.

  It seeme
d everything about her life was regimented, from when she was very small through her marriage at seventeen. Sometimes she imagined what it might be like to let her hair loose and run naked and screaming through the high grass, embracing the wind and the sun. She loved Edward, but when he made love to her, she wished he would show more passion. She was in turn forced to hold in much of her own passion because she feared he would think her a wanton, sinful woman if she behaved as though making love were anything but a duty, for the sole purpose of bearing children.

  Was it sinful to just want to lie with a man? Edward had bedded her and planted his life in her. They had a daughter together. Yet there was so much about that part of marriage that was a mystery to her, even after five years of marriage. Neither had ever seen the other with nothing on, and they had never made love without total darkness. She couldn’t help wonder what it would be like to lie together in the grass, in the warm sunshine.

  She closed her eyes. “Father, forgive my sinful thoughts,” she whispered. She was a minister’s wife. She should not be thinking about pleasures of the flesh. Edward was a good man, a righteous man. He had come here because he had felt a calling to bring God’s word to the Indians. By settling near Fort Reno, he could also serve the soldiers there, lonely men who risked their lives trying to keep the unruly Cheyenne on the reservation where they belonged. Edward was convinced that the presence of soldiers was not enough to quell the restlessness of the Indians, who had lately been sneaking off the reservation and making trouble as far north as Kansas and Colorado. Edward believed the Cheyenne needed to learn the white man’s ways, and that started with converting them to Christianity. In his thinking, that was the only way to “tame the wild savages.”

  “This is 1875,” Edward had said just last night at supper. “Most Indians except the Sioux in the north have learned they can no longer live the old way. They must conform to a new way of life, and Christianity will help calm their souls and properly civilize them.”

  Margaret was not so sure it would be all that easy. They had been here only a short while, and the Indians she had seen hanging around the fort seemed surly, some of them broken and miserable, certainly not eager to embrace the white man’s religion. Surely they felt displaced and lost. The commander at the fort had said that at one time the Southern Cheyenne were some of the fiercest warriors the army had faced, brave fighters who were quite skilled and elusive. The sorry beggars she had seen around the fort did not depict such a people, and she had to wonder what it would be like for her own people if another race came along and pushed them off their land, forced them to live in a place they hated, robbed them of all dignity and possessions, and forced them to change their entire way of thinking and living, lording over them like masters, and handing out food and supplies in meager portions as though they were dogs.

  Did Edward ever think of it that way? Did he ever try to understand how they must feel? He acted as though they should gladly embrace their new life and new religion. He was bringing them something wonderful and they should be grateful, but there was no joy in their eyes, and few bothered to listen to his preaching. She wanted desperately to talk to Edward about her own theories on helping the Cheyenne, but she knew he would resent his wife giving him advice. Her place was to take care of home and meals and have babies, and to keep quiet in the area of decision making.

  She sighed with frustration. She had not wanted to come to Indian Territory. This place was not as pretty or green or cool as Massachusetts. This little pond was like nothing more than a puddle compared with Massachusetts Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. There were no gulls here, no smell of salt water, no cool ocean breezes. There were trees here, but they were not huge and fat and old like those in Massachusetts. The soil here was red clay, not dark and rich. She felt Edward could be better serving his calling somewhere else, perhaps in a new community in Kansas or Nebraska or Colorado, where white Christian families needed a church and a minister.

  “Mommy, get wet with me!” Evelyn splashed water at her mother, interrupting her thoughts.

  Margaret laughed. “Oh, you’re not being fair, Evy! Mommy is still dressed. Now you come out of there and get dressed yourself. We have to get back to—” Her words ended in a gasp. A horse had appeared from out of the thick stand of trees to her right. It was painted with stripes, a sun, and arrows. On it sat a dark-skinned man wearing only a loincloth, his black hair hanging long and loose and a leather band tied around his head. He was sweating and looked ill, but there was no doubt he was strong and fierce. He sat staring at them, and Margaret wondered how long he had been watching them before he made an appearance. What did he want?

  She realized then that little Evy was naked. She quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her daughter, devastated and frightened that an Indian man had seen a little white girl that way. She picked her up and held her close. “Go away!” she said to the Indian.

  His eyelids drooped a little, and suddenly he slumped forward and slid off his horse. Margaret stepped back, keeping a tight hold on Evy, who watched in curious wonder. “Is he sick, Mommy?”

  Margaret watched him quietly for a moment. Should she run away and leave him there? Was he dying? A good Christian would go to his aid, no matter the color of his skin. Her heart pounded with fear, and her thoughts raced in confusion. What would Edward have her do? He would probably say she should leave him and run to the fort for help and protection. Again the tiny feeling of rebellion stirred in her soul, making her want to do exactly the opposite. She set Evy on a blanket. “You stay right there, Evy, do you hear? Put on your dress. I know you can do it by yourself.”

  “Yes, Mommy.” The child whispered the words, as though she was part of a wonderful, scary adventure. She stood rigid, not bothering with her dress yet, more intent on watching her mother and the wild Indian who had just intruded on their privacy. Her father had taught her she must stay away from the Indians, especially the Indian men, but she found them fascinating, and she wished she could play with some of the Indian children around the fort, but her father would not allow it.

  Margaret stepped cautiously closer, and just as she reached the man, he rolled to his side with a groan, making her jump back. Little Evy gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Water,” the man muttered. “I need to reach…water.”

  When Margaret first saw him, she had been too frightened to notice any details about him. Now she saw that he had ugly red marks on his neck, almost like burns, and his entire neck and jawline were badly bruised. “The pond is just a few feet away,” she answered, thinking it was good he at least spoke English. He couldn’t be all that much of a savage if he had taken the time to learn the white man’s language. Many of the Indians around the fort still spoke little English. “What happened to you? Can I help you?”

  “White men…cattlemen…” That was all he said as he got to his knees.

  Margaret reached out hesitantly. She had yet to even touch one of these Indians, and it seemed outright indecent to be touching one who was nearly naked. Again she was disturbed by a curiosity that was surely sinful, for she found herself looking upon his brawny, bare arms and chest with fascination. She had never seen Edward without his shirt on. She grasped his arm, felt his hard muscles as she daringly moved his arm around her shoulders and put her own arm around his waist. “Let me help you to the pond.”

  He stumbled beside her to the water’s edge, then walked a few feet into the water and let himself fall into it. Margaret watched him put his head back to wet his hair and cool himself. He said something in his own tongue as he angrily splashed more water onto the burns on his neck.

  He seemed better with the relief of the water. He would apparently be all right, and Margaret realized she should take Evy and leave, but her legs would not move. She watched him move out of the water, a powerful-looking man with a physique she imagined was like the Greek gods she had learned about in school. She noticed scars on his breasts above the nipples, and wondered how they had
gotten there.

  “Mommy, button my dress.”

  Margaret looked down at Evy, who stood there grinning at the Indian. “I’m Evy,” she said, totally unafraid. “And this is my mommy. Who are you?”

  “Evy, don’t—”

  “I am Wild Horse,” the man answered, his voice raspy and strained, as though his throat was sore.

  Wild Horse! Margaret had heard the soldiers talk about this man. They called him a troublemaker, one of those who often fled the reservation to try to live the old way. He was supposed to be dangerous. He had run away again only a week ago, and it was rumored he was responsible for raiding farms farther north, shooting at settlers and stealing supplies. Fear gripped her, yet still she could not move. His dark eyes showed no animosity toward Evy when he answered her, but when he moved his gaze to Margaret, those eyes changed. He looked her over curiously, and she could see in that look a man’s satisfaction in what he saw, but there was also a hint of contempt there. “You are…preacher’s woman.”

  Margaret could not recall ever having seen him around the fort or the chapel. “How do you know that?”

  “No other white women…here. My people tell me of white man who comes to bring his God to us. He brings with him a woman with hair like sun and eyes like sky.”

  Margaret felt suddenly warmer, touched by the way he had described her. Run, Margaret! she warned herself, yet something held her there. She swallowed against her fear, and she grasped Evy’s shoulders tightly. The child’s simple gingham dress was still unbuttoned in the back, but Margaret was too afraid to take her eyes off Wild Horse to stop and button it. “What happened to you? What are those marks on your neck?”

  There it was! A bitter hatred moved into those frightening dark eyes. Without answering, he turned away and walked unsteadily to his horse, which stood drinking at the water’s edge. He took a red bandana from his supplies and knelt beside the animal, dipping the bandana into the water to wet it. He held it to the burns on his neck.