Frontier Fires

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Sure I do. You know I do.”

  “I mean …” She looked away. “Father says young Indian men like white girls … for bad things.”

  She could almost feel him stiffen without even looking at him. “Is that what you think?”

  She looked up at him again, seeing the hurt in his dark eyes, and also seeing the gentleness there. “No. I don’t even know for sure what he’s talking about.” She reddened again. “I mean … I sort of do. But … I’m not afraid with you. I feel very safe. You make me feel good … happy. It’s just that Father says Indian men are cruel to women, and they drink—”

  He turned away. “We better go back down. I think you listen too much to your father, who apparently doesn’t know much about Indians.”

  “Tom, I’m sorry. I wasn’t speaking for me. I’m just telling you what he feels. I truly do want to see more of you.”

  He met her eyes with his own proud look. “My father almost never drinks. And I don’t drink. My father would die before he would hurt his wife. He won’t even spank his children like white men do. He can be ruthless when it is necessary—against his enemies. But never has he raised a hand against anyone in his family! Nor would I. Your father is a fool to say such things.”

  Her eyes teared. “You don’t understand, Tom. He has reason to feel the way he does.”

  “Reason? What reason?” He stood watching her defiantly, his hands on his hips. She let out a sigh of resignation, folding her arms and turning away.

  “I … I didn’t want to tell you. I was afraid you wouldn’t like me at all anymore.”

  Tom could not help losing some of his anger. She looked so small and pretty standing there. “You don’t have to be afraid to tell me anything.”

  She breathed deeply for courage. “Tom, my brother … he was killed by Indians. At least that’s what my father and most of the neighbors believed. I didn’t believe it and I still don’t.”

  There was a long moment of silence while Tom tried to weigh the news in his mind. Allowing himself to like this girl seemed even more stupid and hopeless now. When a man lost a son, his bitterness and hatred lived on forever. Caleb was right. Her father was an Indian hater, and for the best reason, at least for a white man. For an Indian to kill a white man made all Indians bad in their eyes. “What happened? Why don’t you believe it yourself?”

  She wiped the tears on her cheeks and turned to face him. “My brother drank a lot. He was a bully. He even used to push me around sometimes. I loved him because he was my brother, but I didn’t like him very much.” She turned away again and began pacing nervously in little circles. She had no choice now. She might as well tell him and get it over with.

  “There are only a few Indians left where I live—Osage. Charles Jr., that’s my brother’s name, he used to make fun of them, for no particular reason. He just didn’t like Indians. He thought they were inferior. One day a boy named Billy Parker had come over. I stayed in the house because I hated Billy. He was always trying to get me into a corner and saying dirty things to me. I didn’t see everything that happened, but the next thing I knew Billy and my brother were fighting over some money my brother had made selling homemade whiskey. They used to get into fights all the time. Billy left, and later three young Osage men came looking for work on the farm. My brother started calling them names and making fun of them. He pushed one of them, and the Indian pushed back. They got into a tussle but nothing serious. The other two Indians pulled their friend off and they left. I watched all of it through a window. Mother had been sick a lot and she was lying in bed asleep. Father was out in the fields and didn’t see, but he did see the three Indian boys leave. He came rushing back and my brother gave him an exaggerated story about their being drunk and that they bothered me and tried to rob us. None of it was true. I tried to tell my father that later, but he thinks that I’m just a naive girl who doesn’t understand about men.”

  She looked at him almost pleadingly. “Maybe I don’t, but I know what I saw! My brother provoked the whole thing, and he lied to my father.” She lowered her eyes. “And my father was the kind who was always ready to believe the worst about Indians.”

  “What happened then?”

  “That night after father went to bed my brother went out to the barn. I was still up finishing chores my mother couldn’t do. My brother said he was going out to the barn to sit with a favorite horse of his. He did that sometimes—just sat and drank. Father never cared that he drank. He drank right along with him sometimes and they went to taverns together on Saturday nights.”

  She walked farther away. “Later I went to the screen door to call out to my brother to bring in some wood. But I didn’t say anything when I saw Billy Parker walking toward the barn. He didn’t live far and usually walked over instead of riding. He knew very well that my brother sometimes sat out in the barn drinking at night. He walked right in. I knew they’d probably get in another fight, but they always fought, so I just went back to my chores. I wasn’t about to go out there near Billy Parker with my brother drunk.”

  Tom felt his protective instincts growing again, and a fierce jealousy of Billy Parker burned in his chest. He would like to meet the young man and give him a taste of his fists.

  Bess shook her head. “The next thing I knew, the barn was on fire. I shook my father awake and we ran out there, but there was no stopping the fire by then. My father rushed inside and found my brother, stabbed to death. He dragged him out just before the whole barn was consumed in flames. We lost a lot of equipment, and a couple of horses. But none of that mattered to my father. His son had been killed. Those Osage boys had camped not far away that day. My father remembered seeing them when he went into town later in the day. He was sure it was they who had killed my brother and set our barn on fire. I tried to tell Father I’d seen Billy go into the barn, but he just waved me off. He said Billy and Charles were always fighting, but Billy would never kill Charles. He rode straight into town and brought back the sheriff and had the Osage boys arrested.”

  She blinked back tears. “I felt bad about my brother, but I also know Billy killed him—not those poor Indian boys. I felt so sorry for them. Nobody would defend them. It was more like a lynching than a fair trial. The town had them tried and hung within two days, and all the while they begged and pleaded and swore their innocence. I kept arguing with my father about Billy, but he just grabbed me and shook me and told me I’d better never bring it up again. He just wouldn’t believe it could be anyone but those Indian boys. My mother died not long after, and he blamed it on the trauma of Charles’s death. But it wasn’t that. She was simply worked to death. That left a lot of the work to me, and it also left me alone against Billy Parker. That was part of the reason I was glad Father decided to come to Texas. It got me away from Billy.”

  She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, then turned and looked at Tom. “Life has been easier here as far as work. I don’t have to do any. But it’s harder in so many other ways. I miss my mother terribly, and I still feel guilty about those Osage boys.”

  “Guilty? Why should you feel guilty?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I keep thinking I could have done something more. But I was afraid to speak up publicly in defense of Indians.” She reddened and looked down again, wiping at tears on her cheeks. “I’ll never let that happen again. I guess maybe that’s part of the reason I defended your sister last week. I don’t blame you if you hate me now. But suddenly …” Her shoulders shook and she sniffed and wiped her cheeks again. “Suddenly this whole day is ruined.”

  She turned her back to him, and in the next moment his hands were on her shoulders. “None of the things that happened were your fault,” came his voice. She sensed no anger or animosity. “I can understand why you were afraid to say anything, Bess. You’re just … you’re so young. How can somebody like you know what to do? The important thing is you believed those Indian boys were innocent, when nobody else would believe it. I am glad to know that.”

 
She turned and looked up at him. “You are?”

  He took a big finger and traced it over her cheek, wiping the tears, then placed both hands on either side of her face moving a thumb over her chin and lips. “It would be easier to treat you casually and tell you good-bye right now for good—if you were not so pretty,” he told her then, “and if I didn’t know inside you are a good person.”

  She closed her eyes, shivering at the wonderful sensation he aroused deep in her body when he touched her. He resisted another surge of desire to pull her close and kiss her like the savage she thought he might be. But he wanted her to know that was not all he wanted from her, nor all he had on his mind.

  “I’m so sorry, Tom,” she told him, putting her hands on his strong wrists and meeting his eyes again. “My father … hates Indians. I shouldn’t be up here with you, but I couldn’t resist. I … I like you very much, and I hope that … somehow we can see each other again. I know my father would be against it, but maybe somehow I can reason with him.”

  She saw the look of disappointment in his eyes. He moved his hands to grasp both of hers. “I have a feeling that will be impossible. But somehow I will see you again. You can’t let his personal hatred spoil your own life, Bess. And you can’t hate just because he tells you to hate.”

  “I know. But … he’s all I have now. Let me talk to him. Give it some time before you try to see me again.”

  “That will not be easy. I would like to stay here longer and talk more, but we have to get back down before your father suspects. Having him find us up here would not be a very good way of starting to change his mind.” His eyes glittered with warm friendship. “I’m sorry about your brother. It must have all been terrible for you.”

  She squeezed his hands tightly and hung her head. “Father made me watch the hanging. He said people would wonder if I didn’t. I’ll never forget it—never, never, never.” She started to cry again and he could not resist pulling her close and holding her for a moment.

  “Don’t cry, Bess. Come on now. You have to go back down. You don’t want anyone to know you have been crying.”

  It took her a moment to compose herself. She pulled away then, blushing at the realization she had let him hold her. Tom felt an intense desire at the feel of her full breasts against his chest and the scent of her hair. An overwhelming need to comfort and protect her nearly brought pain to every part of him. He waited while she blinked and wiped her eyes again, smoothing her dress and taking a handkerchief from a little pocket near her waist. She blew her nose, then smoothed her hair and looked up at him. “Am I all right?”

  “You look fine,” he told her with a gentle smile. “You had better go down first. I’ll come down from another direction. That might be best today.”

  “No.” She held up her chin. “We’ll go down together. I don’t care what anyone thinks or says. And I don’t even care right now if Father sees us.”

  Tom smiled. “You are not only beautiful and good, but also very bold, Bess Hafer. You are just the right kind of woman for Texas.” He put a hand to her waist and led her toward the path, realizing his father had most certainly been right about Charles Hafer.

  Below, Jess Purnell was handing Lynda a glass of water. She sat away from the others, wiping perspiration from her forehead and looking pale.

  “Why are you sitting here all alone?” he asked.

  Lynda looked up. “Hello,” she said quietly, taking the water. “Thank you.” She drank it eagerly.

  “You all right? You don’t look well.”

  She lowered the glass. “It’s just the heat.”

  “Yeah, it stays pretty hot here in September. Makes a man long for the mountains. Did you eat? Can I get you something?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  He sighed, feeling awkward, wanting to strike up some kind of friendship. “I … I really am sorry about the other day … half flirting with you like that. I didn’t know about your husband.”

  “It’s all right.” She looked up into kind blue eyes and handed him the glass. “But I really am not feeling well right now.” She suddenly rose and hurried over to an outhouse, going around behind it. Jess followed, concerned. He found her vomiting. “Go away,” she pleaded, spitting and choking.

  “Do you need help? Do you want me to get someone?”

  “I’ll be all right. I’m just—it’s my condition.” She spit again. She breathed deeply, wiping her face with a handkerchief and leaning against the outhouse. “I’ll be all right now.”

  Jess took a piece of peppermint candy from his shirt pocket where he’d put some earlier in the day. “Here,” he told her. “Suck on this.”

  She stared at it, then looked up at him and smiled faintly. “Thank you.” She took the candy and put it in her mouth.

  “You, uh, are you pregnant?”

  Lynda nodded. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Embarrassed? Because you’re having a baby?”

  She put a hand to her stomach. “Women don’t usually talk openly about such things.”

  “Well, I think it’s real nice—I mean … you’ve got something of your husband left. You must be real happy about that.”

  “I am.”

  “What was he like—your husband?”

  She stared at a distant cottonwood tree. “He was wonderful—good, gentle, devoted.” She looked up at him then. “He was Cherokee.”

  Jess Purnell’s eyes moved over her appreciatively. “Well, he was a very lucky man. You’re a very beautiful woman.”

  She looked away. Just talking to another man was like a betrayal to Lee. Still Jess Purnell seemed nice enough. And he had a rugged handsomeness to him that under normal circumstances would turn any girl’s head. But he was not Lee Whitestone, and she had no feelings for any other man.

  “I’m all right now,” she said. “I’m going back to find my mother.”

  “She your real mother?”

  “Yes. It’s a long story.”

  He took her arm. “You need some help?”

  She pulled it away. “No.” She hurried away from him then and Purnell watched after her, imagining her long, dark, willowy body lying next to his in the night. Surely she was wild and wonderful in bed with a man she truly wanted. He wouldn’t mind being that man.

  Tom lay awake in his bunk thinking about the day before. Most, including the Saxes, had stayed so late that they decided to stay all night, sleeping in wagons or on the ground, and return home the next morning. All that night he had lay staring at the Hafer cabin. Bess was in there lying in a bed in her soft flannel gown. Now it was the second night and he was home. He had left her behind, had not seen her at all that morning. She had not even come out of the cabin. He could not help but wonder if it was at her father’s command. The man had been standing with a group of women staring and pointing as Tom and Bess came toward them, and Hafer’s face had been almost purple with rage. But the man had said nothing, greeting Tom with a fake smile.

  “I see you’ve been watching after my daughter, young man,” he said. “She has a habit of wandering off for walks alone.”

  Their eyes held. “Yes,” Tom answered, realizing the man was quickly trying to avoid gossip about his daughter. “I saw her walking away and told her she had better come back here where it was safer. With the Comanche, one can never be sure when they might be around. Tom had accented the word Comanche, trying to point out that not all Indians were to be feared. But Hafer had only given him a sneering look, then led Bess away, introducing her to some other women. She looked back at Tom apologetically and he gave here a smile. But his heart was heavy.

  Perhaps his father was right. To try to see her would only bring a lot of trouble. It was best to leave her alone and not stir up a powerful man whose property adjoined his father’s. It made so much sense just to let it go, to forget her.

  Tom turned over in bed. He felt torn, remembering the softness of her cheek when he kissed it; the sparkle in her dark eyes when she looked at him; the full firmness
of her untouched bosom. It seemed impossible to let some other man be the one to make a woman of her. It should be himself who did that. The thought of some other man invading such innocence and maybe hurting her or being mean to her brought a jealous rage to his soul. And there were plenty of available men on the Hafer spread.

  Yet there was his own father to think about. He loved Caleb Sax as much as his own life. They had always been close. How could he do something that would bring his father trouble? There had been enough problems in the man’s life. Now Lee was dead, and Caleb Sax was still struggling with the horror of his death. No. He never should have gone to the barn raising and let himself see Bess Hafer again. He saw it all in the eyes of Bess’s father. He had missed it the first time he met the man—not completely—but he had missed the intensity of the man’s hatred. Not only would pursuing Bess bring problems to his father, but it would surely bring bigger problems for Bess. She was too nice to put her through all that. Perhaps if Tom left her alone there would be no problems with Charles Hafer. He owed his father that much. He hadn’t even told his father yet about Hafer’s son, but he knew he had better do so soon.

  Forget her. He would forget her. He closed his eyes and there she was, smiling, soft, beautiful. He could smell her lilac perfume and feel the soft skin of her cheek against his lips. He sat up, flinging back his blankets angrily. He rose, wearing his pants but no shirt.

  “You better get some sleep, Tom,” one of the men spoke up. “Lots of work to do tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Tom answered, pulling on a shirt.

  “Where you going this time of night?”

  “To Rosy’s.”

  A couple of the others made panting sounds and another whistled, while the first man hooted.

  “Hey, she’s a wild one, that Rosy,” one man yelled from a dark corner. “You won’t have any energy tomorrow. Better save it for another time, young lover.”

  “Shut up, Dan. I can’t save it.”

  “Hurts that much, huh?”