Since her arrival, father had been busy dealing with Aunt Lizzy’s business affairs and was either locked in the study of this grand southern home, or meeting with potential investors and clients.
The white stone mansion of the Three Elms Farm was vastly different from the much simpler ranch house at the Circle P. Although it had sustained damage in a tornado over a year ago, and now suffered from neglect, it was an imposing home. The pastures and horse barns were also in need of repair, and many fields were empty when there should have been horses grazing the lush bluegrass.
Aunt Lizzy had barely spoken a word since Ellie’s arrival. She remained quiet and withdrawn. Her father had said she suffered from melancholia, having lost her son in the tornado. She spent her days sitting by a large window in the great room most of the time, overlooking the gardens and staring off into the distance.
Ellie’s heart went out to the woman. How easy it would be to simply stop feeling or caring about anything, and let herself drift into the dark chasm of despair. Whenever she’d sensed herself slipping, anger at her father brought her back, at least for another day.
Her father’s loud cough brought her out of her deep thoughts. “So the moment you were out of my sights, you decided to go against everything I’ve taught you, and associate with an Indian.” It wasn’t a question. He intertwined his fingers and rested his elbows on the table before continuing. “Ellie, it’s been a long time since I’ve had to tell you to stay away from them. You know how I feel about the matter. Their kind is responsible for your condition, and who . . . who killed your mother.”
With each word he spoke, his voice dropped until it finally cracked with the last word. Ellie studied her father. Sadness clouded the eyes half-hidden by his reading glasses. Her heart softened at seeing her strong and imposing father look weak and defeated all of a sudden.
She mentally shook her head. He didn’t deserve her pity. He was responsible for killing innocent people.
I didn’t see an Indian or a half-breed. I saw a man, someone who cared about me, understood me, and . . . loved me. He lost everything because of men like you.
Her father stared at her note. Ellie ripped a page from her notebook and continued writing.
You never listened to me, Father. Indians didn’t kill my mother. It was white thieves. I tried to tell you after it happened, but you refused to listen. You and the doctors almost had me convinced that I didn’t know what I was talking about, and was remembering wrong, so I gave up trying to tell you what really happened.
Edward Benton ran a hand over his face. Neither one of them had mentioned her mother in years. Ellie glanced at her father. She couldn’t stop writing now. He had to finally listen to her about how wrong he’d been all these years.
She wrote out her story, the same one she’d told Lance about the day she’d nearly died when her throat had been slit to silence her screams for her mother.
She poured everything into her words that she’d kept locked up inside, including how she’d met Lance at the Circle P, and about how his mother had died in a raid on their village. She ended with the words,
Lance Taggart was the first man who cared enough to listen. He’s gone now, because he found out I’m the daughter of the man who was responsible for killing his mother.
Her father read the note, staring at it long after he’d clearly finished reading. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
Ellie swallowed. She’d already braced herself for a tongue-lashing or an angry outburst, but it never came. Silently, he stood and left the room. Frowning, she stared after him.
That’s it? You’re walking away?
She couldn’t yell the words after him, so she gathered her notebook, ready to follow him. This conversation wasn’t going to end like this, with nothing resolved like all the other times she’d tried to communicate with her father. She hadn’t left her place at the table yet, when he reappeared.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He walked toward her, reaching for her hand.
Ellie placed her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet, wrapping her in an embrace. He sobbed. She stood stiffly for a moment, then returned his hug. Her father was crying?
“Forgive me,” he continued. He drew back, looking down into her eyes. “When I lost your mother, I nearly went mad with grief.” He paused for several moments before continuing. He seemed to be searching for the right words.
“For many years prior, I had done what I could to see that the Lakota were treated fairly on the reservation. But . . .” His gaze turned toward the window, and anger seemed to mix with anguish as he resumed. “My compassion turned to hatred and I refused to see the truth when my men found you . . . and your mother. All the evidence pointed to Indians as the culprits. Ever since that day, I wanted nothing more to do with Indians.”
He looked at her again with a pained expression in his eyes. “That included not having a Cheyenne teach you hand signals. I wanted to take you away, but my transfer requests kept getting denied.”
Ellie scrunched her forehead. She reached for her notebook and pencil.
You ordered an attack on innocent people.
Her father scoffed, then laughed, as if he were disgusted by something. “The raid you’re referring to happened when you were barely two years old, Ellie. Long before I lost your mother. I didn’t set out to raid that village. The troop was under my command that day, so I was deemed responsible for their actions, but I was outranked by a visiting general who wanted to see what his “fighting boys” as he called us, could do.”
Her father turned away from her, and began pacing the length of the dining room. “The Indian Wars were nearly over, but there were still some smaller bands off the reservation. The general ordered that we make an example out of them when my troop came upon a small band of Lakota I was hoping to talk to. I tried to stop the slaughter, but there was nothing I could do.”
Ellie stared, wide-eyed, at her father. The horrors of that day were displayed in his watery eyes. Had she drawn the wrong conclusion about him? Was Lance under the false assumption that her father had caused his mother’s death?
She scribbled a hasty note.
Why did you want to talk to the people in that village?
Edward Benton stopped his pacing. He laughed again and came toward her, studying her intently. “I was searching for someone.”
Ellie shook her head.
“I made a promise to a friend that I would watch for a Lakota woman who would have given birth to a mixed-blooded child. I finally had been given a promising lead of their whereabouts after many years of coming up empty.” He sighed and turned away, shaking his head. “Perhaps you’re right, and I am responsible,” he muttered.
Ellie’s heart pounded in her chest. What she was hearing sounded too unbelievable to be true. She scribbled a hasty question and held it out to her father. She held her breath while he read it.
What was your friend’s name?
Her father looked up to meet her stare. “Vincent . . . Taggart. The father of a good friend of mine.”
Ellie’s mouth fell open. She dropped her pencil and the notebook as her limbs went weak. Her father reached for her hand while he bent to pick up the items. His eye fell on the page of Lance’s portrait. He stared at it for a long time, and tears filled his eyes once again.
“I thought the name you wrote was merely a coincidence, until now,” he said, shaking his head, then looking at her. He let out a soft laugh. “You said his name is Lance?”
She nodded.
“He’s the spitting image of his father, Henry.” He took in a deep breath, then handed her the notebook. “Henry and I were childhood friends. We grew up together here in Kentucky. We went to West Point together. We fought side by side against the confederacy, and we went out west together to Fort Peck after the war was over.”
Ellie didn’t dare breathe for fear of missing a single word her father spoke. It was still inconceivabl
e that her father had known Lance’s father, the man Lance said had abandoned his mother.
Why did Henry abandon the woman who loved him? she scribbled.
Her father shook his head again. “He didn’t abandon her. He wanted to marry her. When he asked for permission to bring her to the fort, his request was denied by the commanding officer at the time. He caused quite a stir, which got him arrested and immediately transferred from the fort. He didn’t even get the chance to see her again and tell her good-bye.”
Ellie swallowed. All this time, Lance had thought his father had abandoned his mother after finding out that she was with child.
“Ellie, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Edward Benton brought the buggy to a stop in front of the massive plantation home that had come into view long before he’d pulled off the main road and driven up a mile-long driveway. The white mansion looked like something Ellie had seen in books about ancient Greece. With her father’s aid, she stepped out of the buggy, her legs weak and trembling as he led her up the stone steps to the imposing entrance.
Ellie’s eyes widened as she gazed at the lavish home. Her mind continued to reel with what she’d learned a few short hours ago about her father, and about Lance. Her heart beat fast, both with anticipation and trepidation. Was she about to meet Lance’s father? She hadn’t asked due to her father’s sudden urgency to leave the Three Elms. He’d instructed the housekeeper to keep an eye on Aunt Lizzy while they were gone.
Her father knocked on the heavy door, and it swung open almost immediately. An older man dressed in a black suit and wearing immaculate white gloves greeted them.
“Edward Benton here to see Vincent Taggart,” her father said firmly.
The butler bowed slightly and stepped aside for them to enter. He led them across the marble-floored entrance to a sitting room, and excused himself. Ellie’s eyes immediately fell on a large portrait hanging over the fireplace mantel. Her hand went to her mouth.
All doubt vanished that Lance was the son of her father’s friend, Henry Taggart. She stared at the likeness of a young man in uniform, standing tall and proud. He had dark hair like Lance, but his skin was definitely white, and his features were unmistakably familiar. She blinked back a tear.
Moments later, a snowy-haired, elderly gentleman walked in, supported by a cane. He stared from Ellie to her father, then held out his hand in welcome. His wrinkled face cracked in a bright smile.
“Edward. I heard you were in Lexington. It’s about time you paid me a visit.”
Her father shook the man’s hand and even gave him a quick hug.
“It’s been too long, Vincent.” Turning to Ellie, he said, “May I present my daughter, Eleanor.”
Vincent Taggart’s eyes widened, and he nodded in approval. “What a lovely girl. Lizzy Benton told me years ago that you had a daughter, Edward.” Turning to Ellie, he added, “You must be nearly . . . twenty years old?”
The old man scrunched his head as if he were concentrating on figuring numbers in his head.
“Nearly twenty-one,” her father said, smiling at her. “Ellie can’t talk, Vincent, but she has a story to tell you that you’ll want to hear. It’s about your grandson.”
Vincent Taggart’s mouth opened. He removed the monocle from his eye and leaned toward Ellie’s father.
“What are you talking about? I don’t have a grandso –”
He didn’t complete the word. His head snapped to Ellie and his eyes widened even more, as if something suddenly made sense.
“Henry’s child,” he rasped. “Henry had a son? You found him?”
Ellie nodded, smiling at the eagerness in the old man’s eyes.
“Henry had a son,” he murmured again, almost in awe. “I have a grandson.”
Vincent Taggart moved to the settee and lowered himself onto the cushion. He patted the space next to him. Ellie joined him while her father pulled up a chair.
Ellie handed him the prepared note she’d written, at her father’s insistence, telling him everything she knew about Lance. When the old man finished reading, he stared at her some more.
“Unbelievable. We’ve searched for years without any leads.”
Ellie scribbled a hasty question.
Henry never talked to you about the woman he loved?
Lance’s grandfather swiped a handkerchief under his nose. He shook his head. “He wanted to, I’m sure. But I was too stubborn to listen back then.” He reached for Ellie’s hand. Sadness passed through his eyes.
Ellie’s gaze drifted again to the portrait on the wall. The man staring back at her had the same eyes as the man who wouldn’t leave her thoughts or her heart. She clutched her notebook close to her chest.
“What’s wrong, child? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Vincent Taggart patted her hand.
Ellie blinked back renewed tears. She flipped to the page of her drawing of Lance. She held it up for Mr. Taggart to see. His eyes widened.
“Henry”, he murmured in disbelief.
Ellie shook her head. She put pencil to paper.
Lance. His name is Lance Taggart.
She continued to write about everything Lance had told her, about how he’d thought his father had abandoned his mother, and how his mother had been killed. She shared how he had been educated at one of the Indian Schools, and how he was good with horses. And finally, she wrote that she loved him, but had lost him. She concluded with,
What happened to your son? Where is he now?
The old man blew his nose into his handkerchief, and swiped at his eyes.
“He died,” he rasped, then cleared his throat. “Dysentery, is what they told me. He was transferred from Fort Peck and stationed in Arizona.” He coughed again. “He didn’t want to go. He wrote to me about an Indian woman he’d fallen in love with, and for that he’d been re-assigned.”
The old man chuckled. “I was angry about it, especially when I read that he wanted to marry her. Henry wrote that he wanted to leave the army because they wouldn’t allow him to be with her.” He paused, and his shoulders slumped. “He’d spent his whole career in the army. I told him not to do anything so foolish, and that I’d disown him if he followed through with his plan. He was transferred, and a month later, he was dead.”
Ellie held her hand to the man’s arm. A tear rolled down her cheek. This was Lance’s grandfather. She started to write when Mr. Taggart spoke again.
“He mentioned in his letter that the woman he loved was with child. Henry was overjoyed to become a father, but he never got the chance to know his offspring.” He looked up, and smiled at Ellie. “I haven’t forgiven myself for what I said to my son, that I’d never condone him marrying an Indian.”
He blew his nose again, looking from Ellie to her father, who’d sat quietly by and listened. “Henry came home for a few days before his transfer. We got into an argument. We parted in anger, and I never got the chance to tell him that I was sorry, and that he was right.”
The old man cleared his throat. Ellie glanced at her father, who stared back at her with a weak smile on his face.
“I wanted to make up for my actions by trying to find the woman. It didn’t matter anymore that she was an Indian. She was the mother of Henry’s child. Since Henry never mentioned her name, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. I had given up hope of ever meeting my only grandchild.”
His eyes filled with hope as he looked at Ellie. “But now he’s been found, thanks to you.”
Ellie’s father stood and smiled at her, then at Lance’s grandfather. “Vincent, how would you like to take a trip to Montana?”
Chapter Twenty
His pulse throbbed in time with the steady cadence of a nearby drum. The sound droned on relentlessly, or was it simply his imagination and the pounding in his head? Lance groaned. He rolled to the side in an effort to escape the noise. A sharp pain tore through his chest with the movement. Sweat tickled his neck as it rolled down his face. Close by, a dog whined.
“Mahto.” He mouthed the name of his companion, but no sound came out.
Lance forced his eyes to focus in the dim light surrounding him. The flickering flames of a fire cast dancing shadows along the walls of what appeared to be a tent. His eyes widened. Where was he?
He drew in another breath, the air irritating his parched throat and causing him to cough. He moaned and gritted his teeth at the agonizing pain that pierced his insides. His hand reached up to clutch at the source of the pain, his fingers making contact with a soft material that could be cotton.
“Thunkashila,” he rasped, his voice weak as if he hadn’t used it much. Was Grandfather nearby? Had he saved Lance’s life?
He squeezed his eyes shut. His grandfather was dead. He should be dead, too, after what had happened. Faint images filled his head of his horse tired from running, his dog yipping in pain, and the ground coming up to meet his face, while men’s laughter swirled around him.
They’d ignored the dog, but after a bullet to the thigh had brought Lance to his knees, they had repeatedly kicked him and stomped on his leg. Agonizing pain consumed him just as he heard the sickening crack of bone.
“I told ya not ta turn yer back on me, Injun.” Hank Marvel’s harsh voice rang in his head as clearly as if the hated man stood right beside him. His companion, Fred Hanson had laughed while delivering another kick to Lance’s lower back.
Lance held his breath, braced for the pain, then sat up, still keeping his eyes closed. More sweat dripped down his bare chest and arms, and the agony to his entire body nearly caused him to pass out again.
Flashes of light swirled in front of his eyes when he opened them, and the discomfort of sitting up was almost too much to bear. He couldn’t breathe. Whispering a curse of frustration, he sank back onto the pallet. Trying to catch his breath from the effort brought another wave of coughing, which made him hurt even more.
In His Kiss: Blemished Brides, Book 4 Page 17