by Shirl Henke
THE ENDLESS SKY
By
SHIRL HENKE
Originally published by St. Martin’s Press
Copyright 1998 by Shirl Henke
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without the written permission of the author.
Other electronic works by Shirl Henke:
A FIRE IN THE BLOOD
“Billie Jo and the Valentine Crow”
House of Torres Books:
PARADISE & MORE
RETURN TO PARADISE
The Blackthorne Trilogy:
LOVE A REBEL…LOVE A ROGUE
WICKED ANGEL
WANTON ANGEL
The Cheyenne Series:
SUNDANCER
THE ENDLESS SKY
CAPTURE THE SUN
Prologue
1857, Fort Riley, Kansas Territory
The People trudged in resignation, herded between the soldiers' horses in a long straggling line. There were far more women and children left than men. Most of the warriors had been killed. The wives, mothers and sisters had slashed their arms and legs in mourning as was the custom of the Cheyenne. The blood dried and blackened on their skin in the cold November wind that swept across the plains. A thin veneer of ice glittered like scattered diamonds on the desolate earth, a sparkling mockery beneath low pewter clouds. Even the vegetation begged for mercy against the relentless elements, but the People did not. Freezing air seared the brown buffalo grass, striking it down and flattening it all around them.
Soldiers huddled on their horses, drawing heavy overcoats close against the bite of the wind. On foot, the Cheyenne leaned into its teeth, their thin blankets and ragged buffalo hide coverings whipping around their knees. Soon they would reach the white man's fort. None knew what would become of them after that.
The trouble had begun only a few years ago, but it seemed like a lifetime now. For several generations trappers and traders who were friends of the People had come in small numbers, never disturbing the mother earth. But now they were followed by an ever-widening stream of miners and settlers, who scarred the sacred soil with their wagon trails and gouged it with picks and plows. The buffalo herds had begun to shrink and the People learned hunger.
Clashes between emigrant wagon trains and Cheyenne hunters brought the Long Knives who spoke of peace but made war. Treaties were signed and then broken and the vast trackless hunting grounds of the Cheyenne, stretching from the sacred Black Hills in the north to the staked plains of the Comanche in the south, were no longer theirs to roam. The soldiers harried them, and the trails to California and Oregon became safe for the white men but dangerous for the red.
The Blue Coat leader raised his hand and signaled. An ugly adobe fort sat, squat and forbidding, directly ahead of them. Babies wailed and old men sang their death chants while small children clung to their mothers' skirts. They were all herded through the wide stockade gates into the center of a bleak parade ground where the striped flag of the Great White Father snapped in the wind. The Cheyenne stood around it, stoically waiting as the Blue Coat leader greeted another officer.
Freedom Woman watched them, her heart hammering wildly in her chest, her mouth gone dry in spite of the fine sleet that peppered her face. Her arms and legs were crusted with dried blood. Blood calls to blood, mine to his. But Vanishing Grass was dead and she had followed the custom of his people, so wild in her grief that she did not even feel the bite of the knife.
Four days ago the Long Knives had ridden through their village at daybreak, burning the lodges with their dearly garnered winter meat supplies, and killing all the men who resisted. The Pawnee scout who spoke for the Blue Coats had promised them food and medicine from the government. They had seen nothing but bug-ridden hardtack and corn mush thus far. Freedom Woman had heard the Old Ones saying there would be no fresh meat and none of the white man's medicines for starving and sick Cheyenne. In her heart she knew they spoke the truth. The small boy beside her coughed again, his thin face flushed with fever. She had bundled her heavy buffalo robe around him but still he shook with chills.
I will not let you die, no matter what the cost, she thought fiercely. Clutching the child by one thin arm, she began to weave her way through the waiting Cheyenne to where the troopers stood in a line, rifles gripped tightly in their hands. Behind them the fort commander and the three leaders started to walk off the parade ground. She had to stop them before it was too late!
Seeing her break free of the group, a blue-eyed soldier lifted the stock of his rifle and shoved it in her face, saying, “You gotta get back. Capt'n will decide what's to be done here.”
Panic clawed at her when she struggled to speak. The words would not come for a moment. They stuck in her dry throat, unfamiliar after so many years. She had wanted to forget, perhaps succeeded all too well! The young trooper's boyish face was wide-eyed with amazement when she flung the heavy woolen scarf away from her head, revealing two thick braids of golden blond hair.
Dumb with shock, he lowered the rifle and she seized her opportunity. Rushing past him, she dragged the child behind her across the icy ground and fell on her knees in front of the post commander.
Brilliant blue eyes stood out in her sun-darkened face as she sobbed, “Please, for the love of God, I cannot let my son die here. You must help us. My name is Anthea Remington...”
Chapter One
1871, Boston
“Lord, Ray, she's scarce old enough for corset stays!” Chase Remington said in amusement as his bored gaze swept the glittering assembly, scarcely lingering a moment on the slender young brunette across the room. The Cabot’s' Christmas ball was one of the social events of the season. Everyone of consequence in the city was invited.
His companion Rayburn Lawrence's attention remained fixed on the girl, who was surrounded by a bevy of young swains. “Stephanie's seventeen, old enough for courting.”
Remington's husky laugh was cynical. “Old enough for a sizable dowry to present to her husband or else you wouldn't be interested.”
Ray's fair complexion darkened to an unflattering beet red. “Easy for you to dismiss the issue of money, Chase, old man, but I must be practical. At least the girl's passable looking as well as rich. She's old Josiah's only heir.”
“And young and gullible enough to be putty in your hands,” Remington said dryly as his eyes once more alighted on the girl's face when she turned in their direction. Wide-set eyes of some pale color were made dramatic by dark, winged eyebrows which contrasted with the unusual color of her hair, neither brown nor blond but a rich bronze color somewhere between. As she shook her head firmly to something an admirer said, Chase noted the stubborn determination of her chin. “On second thought, for all her tender years, she might prove more difficult to mold than putty,” he remarked. There was something nigglingly familiar about the tilt of her jaw line and the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. Before he could consider it further, Ray distracted him.
“I can handle her even if I'm not the exotic Lothario you are, Chase. That wicked Indian blood combined with the Remington millions makes women drop like ripe fruit just for your taking.”
Chase scowled but knew Ray meant no particular offense with the reference to his Cheyenne heritage. Rather it was the mention of Remington wealth that made him uncomfortable. “Women, especially rich Eastern socialites, fickle creatures that they are, love the thrill of the forbidden. Out West I'd be called a half-breed bastard, which technically speaking is true.” He shrugged carelessly at Lawrence's embarrassment.
Eager to drop the uncomfortable subject, lest he set off his college companion's volatile temp
er, Ray seized Chase's arm, saying, “Let me introduce you to Stephanie. Of course, after I do, I shall expect you to act the gentleman and leave the field clear for me.” His pale blue eyes were alight with excitement as he started toward the group of men encircling the lady in question.
“Since we both know damn well I'm no gentleman, why don't I retire from the field right now, Ray? The punch bowl beckons and you know how Indians are with liquor.” His tone was light but beneath his lazy drawl laid a hard-edged bitterness.
Ray understood the warning signs. Dropping his hand from Chase's arm, he nodded. “Well, I'll see you later then—unless I can convince Stephanie to take a carriage ride with me.” He leered nastily as Chase left, heading to the refreshment tables.
After a couple of drinks and a tedious flirtation with the daughter of a prominent congressman, Chase was ready to leave the party, which was crowded with far too many young debutantes and their marriage-minded mamas for his comfort. Agatha Lodge had promised to meet him at midnight if her elderly husband drank himself stuporous as was his wont. After pouring the old sot into his carriage, she would be waiting for Chase in the Cabot’s' library. They did not plan to read.
What to do from now till then? He took out his gold Howard pocket watch and checked the hour. He could slip down to a private gambling establishment on the seedier side of the city and play a few hands of cards. Perhaps if luck ran with him, he'd stay the night and let Agatha stew. She'd grown more possessive here of late than he preferred.
If only I could leave this accursed prison behind. Visions flashed through his mind of jagged pine-covered mountains, vast prairies undulating with buffalo stretching to the distant horizon, an endless sky so dazzling blue it made a man ache. The acrid taste of bile filled his mouth. He was trapped for as long as his mother lived. If one could call the way she was now “living.”
He chose to remember her as she used to be when his father was alive, a tall, regal woman with thick golden hair who walked beside Vanishing Grass with pride. Life with the Cheyenne had been harsh, often dangerous, but for her it had been liberation from the past, so much so she had taken the name Freedom Woman when she wed her Indian husband. She laughed often then and looked on her only child with warm smiling eyes filled with love. It was because of him that she had come back here. Better they had taken their chances on the reservation than endure the unspeakable obscenities inside the Remington mansion. The army might kill them, the Indian agents starve them, but either way it meant only death, and death, for a Cheyenne warrior, was nothing to be feared. But there were things in the white world even a warrior must fear. He washed away the ugly memories with a long swallow of whiskey punch.
Across the room Stephanie Summerfield tried not to stare at the uncommonly tall man standing alone. His height was not the only thing uncommon about him. His complexion was swarthy in contrast to the snowy whiteness of his shirt, and his unfashionably long straight hair brushed the collar of a jacket tailored to fit the magnificent expanse of his shoulders. But it was his face that held her so raptly. His glittering eyes, black as onyx, stared at some indistinct point in the distance, as if he were lost in a reverie. Thick dark lashes and heavy lids added to the disquieting intensity of his gaze, as did his sharply slashed eyebrows. In a room full of thin blue-blooded noses, his was larger, more boldly sculpted, yet it fit perfectly with the high prominent cheekbones and strong angular set of his jaw line. One straight lock of hair fell across his forehead when he leaned over and set his glass on the table, then glided away with feral grace.
“Sinfully handsome, isn't he?” Addie Lake whispered from behind her fan. “Rumor has it, his father was a red Indian who carried off his mother. He couldn't speak a word of English when she brought him home. Then he ran off to the savages again when he was fourteen and had to be dragged back. No wonder poor Anthea Remington had to be placed in a sanitarium. Of course, he's not legitimate, but he is Jeremiah Remington's only grandson so that makes him incredibly rich. I suppose some could overlook his inferior blood, even his gambling and drinking, since he's a Remington—and such a gorgeous Remington at that.” Addie laughed slyly as Stephanie's cheeks tinged pinkly. “Of course my mama would have the vapors if he ever looked my way. He has a terrible reputation with women. The Remingtons will have a difficult time getting a good family to allow their daughter to marry a half-savage.”
“That half-savage, as you so quaintly call him, will graduate from Harvard next year. I seriously doubt if he's taken any scalps lately, not that I'd blame him, the way some people treat him,” Stephanie blurted out. Then seeing the malicious light in Addie's eyes, she could have bitten her tongue.
“So, you do know Chase Remington! Lucretia said you did, but I just couldn't believe it.”
Stephanie was saved from an awkward explanation when Rayburn Lawrence approached her and asked for another dance. She was ever so glad to leave the gossip mongering Addie behind, even if she did not find Ray the least bit appealing. He held her too closely when they danced and she disliked the overly sweet smell of the pomade he used to subdue his frizzy carrot hair, but most of all she hated the way he talked down to her as if she were a child or an imbecile.
“I heard Chase's name mentioned. Does Miss Lake know him?”
“No, I do...or at least I did, many years ago when we were children. Are you his friend, Mr. Lawrence?”
‘‘Now I've asked you to call me Ray, Stephanie,” he scolded, then smiled, drawing her closer. “Yes, although I'm not exactly certain that Chase has any real friends. Not the sort, you know. He's a born loner. We were thrown together in Professor Thayer's philosophy class last term. I assisted him in writing a paper on Locke and Hume. Metaphysical stuff, you know,” he added importantly. “Now don't bother that lovely little head worrying about what metaphysics is.”
Stephanie stiffened at his patronizing tone and interrupted coolly, “Metaphysics is an inquiry into the nature of ultimate reality and the terms in which it can best be categorized. I've read John Locke and David Hume.”
Damned Boston bluestocking, Ray thought with irritation. The last thing he wanted to do was to discuss philosophy with anyone, especially a girl he wanted desperately to impress. In fact, Chase had written the paper for him, but it served Ray's purpose better when told in reverse. Or at least he thought it did until now. “You're far too beautiful to be a bookworm, Stephanie. Oh, there I go again, putting my foot in my mouth,” he said, noting her flush of embarrassment with satisfaction. “I didn't mean to be unkind.” He gave her his most boyishly charming smile.
“That's quite all right,” Stephanie said with a sigh. “Most of the girls at Miss Edgehill's Academy prefer piano lessons to philosophy, or painting silly little watercolors to studying art history. So, how did you and Mr. Remington meet?” she asked brightly, knowing it would annoy him to discuss Chase.
Gritting his teeth, Ray beamed at her as they swept across the floor. “It was the past spring on the Common...”
Chase observed Ray dancing with Stephanie whatever her name was. That strange sense of familiarity washed over him again as they drew nearer and he could study her face close up. She was tall for a female, even among his people where women averaged five and a half feet. Her body was slender, not quite the full bloom of voluptuousness so in fashion, but she was young yet. There was an honest freshness, vivacity to her that he found unusual among white women. He felt himself drawn to cut in on Ray and dance with her.
Absurd. Best if he stayed out of trouble for once and a girl like that one spelled nothing but trouble for the likes of him. Shrugging, he headed toward the library...and Agatha. He could sense the eyes of the women following him as he strolled from the ballroom, cat hungry young matrons on the prowl, silly little virgins tantalized with naughty thoughts, hostile and horrified respectable women who were appalled that a savage was allowed to contaminate their sacrosanct society. He despised them all.
Once there had been a white girl he had honestly liked. Stevie. The
image of a freckled elfin face with a wide smile missing several teeth flashed into his mind. She couldn't have been more than eight. Hell, he was only twelve or so. Back when he was still naively trying to fit into white society. Before... Don't think about it!
He made certain no one was watching as he turned to the left heading down the hall instead of out the front foyer. The Cabot home, like so many of the Beacon Hill mansions, was an immense mausoleum filled with endless dark passageways and dank cavernous rooms. Chase was a little early but the silent library was preferable to the noisy chatter in the ballroom. Most of the time he was comfortable being alone. That was how he chose to live his life.
Selecting a cigar from old man Cabot's humidor, he lit it and stared out the window at the winter garden where ugly topiary huddled beneath a blanket of soot-stained snow. Could white men leave nothing in nature untouched?
* * * *
Stephanie stood behind a large potted orange tree, praying that she had escaped the notice of Rayburn Lawrence. Of all her suitors, he was the most troublesome. Bumbling prep school youths who stammered or brought her wilted nosegays she could handle, but Mr. Lawrence was older, a college man. Of course, so were a number of others. But they are not friends of Chase Remington, her subconscious rose to taunt. She tamped the thought down. Chase had not even remembered her. She had felt his eyes on her several times as she and Lawrence danced but he had not approached.
The luster had decidedly worn off the evening. Her feet were swollen from having clumsy young men trample them on the dance floor and her head was beginning to ache from the smell of overheated bodies and heavy pomade. Father was doubtless closeted away in Mr. Cabot's private sitting room discussing business with other rich Boston merchants. She slipped quickly through the crowd and went in search of him.