Jane Bonander

by Warrior Heart

  Warrior Heart

  JANE BONANDER

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1997 by Jane Bonander

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.

  First Diversion Books edition May 2013.

  ISBN: 9781626810341

  For two of my favorite small-dog lovers, Evelyn Bonander and Donna King, and for Dorothy Lohman, whose Shih Tzu, Tashi, taught me everything I needed to know about the breed.

  Let those love now who never loved before;

  Let those who always loved, now love the more.

  —Thomas Parnell

  A special thank-you to my Michigan friends, Nancy Giggey and Peggy Wang, for their unwavering support and for the title of this book.

  Prologue

  Northern California Coast, 1879

  Vigilantes. They had come out of nowhere, hooded, cowardly, and without a salvageable soul among them. One minute Flicker Feather had been industriously weeding her garden, and the next, she lay dead, her blood soaking into the earth.

  Jackson stood over her grave, his head buzzing, his chest and his throat burning with unshed tears. The smell of fresh dirt drifted through the air, as did the scent of the wildflowers that showered the ground around the grave. A mourning dove wept somewhere in the distance, the sound as melancholy as it was comforting.

  Jackson heard the baby crying, but he couldn’t move.

  Time passed. Aeons, maybe. He didn’t know and he didn’t give a good goddamn. Time meant nothing now that his beloved was gone. The vision of her lying beneath the dirt made him choke, and he gasped for breath, feeling as though he were suffocating. He fell to his knees and rocked, dragging in gulps of air.

  Again he wondered why he hadn’t sensed trouble with the vigilantes. There had been plenty of it around, but Flicker Feather’s village had been far enough west that it had escaped the vicious acts of the Whites who were so filled with hate. Even so, he should have felt the danger. He should have known they would ultimately find them.

  He wondered if it would have done any good, if he could have prepared the villagers better…. Could he have insisted his wife not go out into the garden unless he was there to watch her? He attempted a smile. She’d been a sweet, generous girl, but she’d also had a mind of her own. She’d hated it when he hovered.

  His gaze found a lingering robin perched atop one of the split redwood pickets that made up the fence that enclosed his wife’s grave. The bird pecked at the decorative feathers Grandmother had fastened there. Finding nothing edible, it hopped to the storage basket that sat beside the fence and plucked at the woven reeds.

  Jackson had never professed to have a “gift,” but he’d predicted his wife’s pregnancy, and it hadn’t been a hopeful guess. He’d known the baby was growing inside her. Why couldn’t he have “seen” the horror coming?

  He groaned. God, he didn’t know what he would do without her.

  “Her spirit is gone, Warrior Heart.”

  He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t heard the footsteps that scuffed across the grass, stopping behind him.

  Pain tore through Jackson’s chest and tears leaked, spilling onto his cheeks. “Why couldn’t I save her, Grandmother?”

  “Your energy must no longer be for my granddaughter. You have a child to think about.”

  A ragged sigh escaped. “What good am I to her? I couldn’t keep my wife from harm, how can I be of any use to the daughter she bore?”

  “That is not Warrior Heart talking; that is pity.”

  “It’s the way I feel.”

  Her strong, bony fingers grabbed his shoulder. “You are being selfish. Think of what Flicker Feather would want you to do.”

  Staring into the distance, Jackson shook his head, unwilling and unable to put aside his pain. “If she’s dead, she has no thoughts, Grandmother.” He continued to stare, yet saw nothing.

  “This was my fault. My being here has put the village in jeopardy.”

  Grandmother was quiet, but Jackson knew that deep in her heart, she too felt he was to blame, for he’d stood alone in his attempt to fight the prejudice against Flicker Feather’s people, against all the Indian people. For decades the Whites, and before them the Spanish, had slaughtered the gentle California tribes, to gain their land and to rule over them. Resistance meant death. Passivity meant death or enslavement. To many, Jackson realized, bile forcing its way into his throat, death was the more honorable route.

  His presence among these gentle-hearted people put them in danger. He had first thought that living among them would be a deterrent against those who wanted all remnants of the Indians and their old ways obliterated. Arrogance, perhaps, had led him to this hopeful belief.

  “It’s better if I’m gone, Grandmother. And better if you and the baby are gone, too. You’ll be safe as long as you’re away from here. And away from me.”

  Grandmother made a spitting sound. “You would abandon your own child?”

  A shudder tore threw him. His destination was uncertain. But whatever it was, his daughter was better off elsewhere. “Where I’m headed, she can’t go.”

  Grandmother squatted beside him and hesitated a moment before speaking. “Will you return to your other family, then?”

  He shook his head. He’d tried that route, but in the end, he hadn’t been able to tell his father what he wanted. He hadn’t been able to tell him anything. The estrangement between them had grown wider, ever since he’d refused to settle down and work the ranch. Angry words had been spoken on both sides. Although his father was not a bigot, he didn’t understand Jackson’s need to be with the Indian people. He never would. When they couldn’t reach an understanding, Jackson had gone back to the tribe, fallen in love with Flicker Feather, married her, and fathered a child. And no one knew. No one.

  “I want you to raise Flicker Feather’s daughter,” he replied. “I want her to know the ways of your people, not mine.”

  Grandmother’s expression was skeptical. “Your vision is hampered by your grief. Your people are good. They should know of your child.”

  In his heart, Jackson knew there was a corner that would agree. But not now. Not here. Not with this child. He hadn’t the strength to face his father again.

  Grandmother made an impatient sound with her tongue. “Where am I to take her?”

  Jackson clasped the old woman’s bony fingers and stood, drawing her to her feet. He towered over her in every physical way, but she possessed the strength that he somehow had lost when Flicker Feather died.

  “I will make arrangements for you to take the baby and travel up the coast. To safety.”

  “I do not want to go. I will not.” Grandmother folded her thin arms across her chest and set her toothless jaw firmly.

  Jackson felt a knot of frustration twist through his grief. “Please, Grandmother. I can’t guarantee your safety if you stay here.”

  “This is my home. I will not intrude upon the lives of others. If you want me to care for your daughter, then she will stay here with me.” She waited a beat, then added, “And if you are the man I know you can be, you will not leave us.”

  Her disgust was evident. Jackson’s own disgust with himself swelled. “You aren’t safe here, Grandmother. No one is safe from the vigilantes.”

  “You are a coward to leave,” she spat.

  He couldn’t argue with the truth. “Whether I stay or not, you are still in danger.”

  She was re
solute. “They will not harm us. I have been in contact with the spirits, and they have promised us safety.”

  Squelching a sigh, Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose. He had respect for her religion, but the reality was that no one was safe from the vigilantes.

  “I’m going to the bank to talk with John Frost. Once I’ve set up a trust fund for you and the child, I’ll make sure you have access to it. John is a good man. He’ll make it easy for you, I promise.”

  There was a voice in his head that warned him not to leave, but he refused to listen. He knew he should stay and find the bastards who had murdered his wife. He knew he should exact some revenge. His head told him it was the right thing to do. But his heart was so filled with grief he had no room for any other emotion.

  “Your religion speaks to you, Grandmother, I know that. But I need to know that my daughter will survive in spite of my absence.”

  Grandmother’s black eyes pierced his. “Since the death of Flicker Feather you have not spoken your daughter’s name.”

  He couldn’t speak it aloud, for it had been Flicker Feather’s choice, and each time he heard the name now, it intensified his personal pain. Their daughter’s eyes, his wife had told him, held the faded tints of morning and the deep, rich colors of evening. She was named Dawn Twilight.

  Northern California Coast, 1882

  He had been born twenty years too late. Now, as the leader of the vigilantes sat astride his mount on Pinkers Bluff, gazing out over the burned and smoking village, he knew this had to be the last raid. Twenty years ago, other whites would have applauded him for the butchery of the small tribe of digger Indians. They would have looked at the grass where pools of blood sweltered in the heat, and at the huts, spattered with gore, and said, “Well done. Another filthy savage village returned to dust.”

  But not now. Now, although there was still prejudice, widespread massacres were frowned upon. He drew in a breath, the air pungent with smoke and burning flesh, and pulled out his tobacco pouch. As he rolled a cigarette, he glanced at his companion.

  “This will be the last village,” he instructed. “If we burn any more, we’re liable to get caught.” And in truth, he didn’t know if he could stomach another slaughter. It was one thing to rid the countryside of the filthy diggers; it was quite another to watch their children die. Strange. He felt no shame after killing the adults. But the children, even though they were the nits of the lice-ridden diggers, softened his heart.

  His companion shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “I’m glad we’re done. I never did like doing this. Hell, I almost confessed my sins to the priest last week.”

  The leader leaned over and shoved his cigarette near the man’s brushy mustache. “If word ever leaks out about what we’ve done, I’ll know who did it.”

  The older man pushed the cigarette away. “I don’t have a death wish. I can keep my mouth shut.”

  The leader’s gaze returned to the smoldering village. He’d done what had to be done, but he wasn’t like the others. Not like those who went in and butchered the innocent, slicing and gouging and skewering the babes on their bloody blades … or roasting them over fires made from the flesh of their parents.

  He swallowed hard. No, he wasn’t like that. After all, he was a father himself. He could never harm a child. At least … not on purpose.

  1

  Riverside Boardinghouse, Thief River, California, 1891

  Hold still, dear. I can’t get a straight hem when you wiggle.”

  Dawn’s movements quieted and she expelled an exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry, Mama. It’s just that I promised Mahalia I’d go into the woods near the river and pick her some berries for dessert tonight.”

  Libby took the last pin from her mouth and fastened it to the yellow flower-sprigged calico. She caught her daughter’s glance and smiled, admiring how well the bright yellow color suited her dusky complexion.

  “Walk to the door so I can see if the hem is even.”

  Dawn pirouetted away, her thick, dark braid swinging.

  Libby scrutinized her work, satisfied. “It’s nice of you to want to help, but you don’t have to take orders from Mahalia.”

  Dawn giggled and studied her reflection in the mirror. “Why not, Mama? You do.”

  Libby caught her daughter’s eye and winked. “I do, don’t I?”

  “It’s almost like she’s the boss and you’re working for her instead of the other way around.” Laughter lingered in Dawn’s voice as she twirled.

  “Mahalia does have that effect on people, doesn’t she?” Libby put the pincushion into the sewing basket and set the basket beside the rocking chair. She had mending to do tonight.

  “I like her, though,” Dawn mused as she swayed to some internal music. “She’ll cook anything I want, and she bakes the most delicious apple pie in the whole world.”

  “That she does.” Libby’s hands automatically went to her hips, which had rounded slightly more than she would have liked since she’d hired Mahalia as her cook and assistant three years before. She couldn’t call Mahalia a whirlwind, for her larger-than-life appearance and presence likened her more to a tornado.

  “Have you finished your lessons?”

  Dawn stopped dancing and wrinkled her nose. “I have sums to do.”

  Libby swallowed a sigh. Sums were Dawn’s nemesis; this wasn’t the first time she’d finished all of her other lessons, leaving the sums till last, hoping they’d somehow miraculously do themselves.

  “You can take the dress off, dear.”

  Dawn stepped out of her new dress, and Libby noticed that the knee of one of her cotton stockings was torn. Dawn attempted to move away, but Libby caught her arm.

  “What happened to your knee?”

  “It’s nothing, Mama. Really.”

  Again she attempted to leave, but Libby drew her close and examined the rip, noting that blood had soaked through the fabric. Gently pushing the cloth aside, she saw the ugly scrape on her daughter’s knee.

  “How did this happen?”

  Dawn wouldn’t look at her. “It was nothing, Mama. I … I tripped, that’s all.”

  An angry ache settled in Libby’s chest. “You were pushed, weren’t you?”

  Dawn finally pulled away and picked up her school dress. “I told you, I tripped.”

  Libby clenched her fist and pressed it against her mouth. This was the third time in a week that Dawn had “tripped” on her way home from school, ripping her stockings. But the stockings be damned. Libby refused to believe her daughter was that awkward and clumsy.

  “It’s those boys, isn’t it? Willie Frost and his bullying friends. They’re teasing you again, aren’t they?”

  Dawn stood before her in her muslin chemisette. The lace edging the hem of one leg was torn. “It happens all the time, Mama.”

  How could she be so calm? Libby rose, maternal possessiveness causing her blood to boil in her veins. “I’ll get to the bottom of this if I have to—”

  “Mama, please,” Dawn pleaded. “If you interfere, you’ll only make things worse.” She hugged Libby’s waist. “It’s not so bad, really. I can usually outrun them. I don’t mind so much. They’ll get tired of picking on me one day and go after someone else.”

  Libby returned the embrace, pressing her nose against Dawn’s shiny black hair. “But I mind.”

  Dawn patted her shoulders, as if Libby were the one who needed the encouragement. “I can take care of myself, Mama.”

  Leaning away from her daughter, Libby swallowed the lump in her throat and gave Dawn’s braid a playful tug. “What will I do when you no longer need me?”

  “That won’t be for a long, long time,” Dawn assured her.

  Libby forced a smile. “I guess you need me to tell you to get out of those stockings and have Mahalia bathe your knee.” She lifted an old brown cotton dress off the table. “Put this on before you go cavorting in the woods, please, and hang your school dress in the wardrobe.”

  Dawn shrugged into
the dress while Libby folded the new one and draped it over the sewing chair.

  “Perhaps you should do your sums before you go off picking berries. I know you. Once you’re in the woods, you’ll have no concept of time, and I’ll have to come looking for you.”

  “But if I do my sums first, it’ll be dark before I can get to the berry patch.”

  “Sums come before berry picking, Dawn.”

  Dawn’s beseeching look was a well-practiced one. Although it confirmed her youth, there were times when Libby swore her daughter was twelve, going on eighteen. The realization filled her with bittersweet emotions.

  “But, Mama, I—”

  Laughter erupted on the porch below, and they both turned toward the open window.

  Dawn skipped across the room, ignoring the cat that slept on the cushioned window seat, and peered outside. “Oh, look! How cute!” She sped past her mother, scrambling to button the last few buttons of her dress before she disappeared out the door. Her footsteps clattered on the stairs.

  Libby frowned and stepped to the window just as a horse’s rump disappeared beneath the porch roof.

  Raising her battered head, the cat on the window seat made a raspy sound and glared at Libby with her one good eye.

  Libby stroked her scarred ears, lingering on her neck. “I’m sorry, Cyclops. I didn’t mean to disturb your nap.”

  The roof hid the Bellamy brothers from view, but Libby heard them chortling. She wondered how many decades Burl and Bert had been living at the boardinghouse; they’d been here when she arrived twelve years before.

  Now, as every day, they rocked on the porch, snorting with laughter at something or someone Libby couldn’t see. They passed most days that way, making running commentary on everyone, stranger and acquaintance alike.

  “What the hell do ya call that?” Burl Bellamy’s cackle turned into a fit of coughing.

  “It’s a dog.”