The Listening Sky

by Dorothy Garlock

  “Jane, this isn’t necessary—”

  “I think it is. Please don’t say anything.” She turned from him, unable to bear the pity in his eyes now, and the hatred that would follow. She straightened her shoulders anew and continued.

  “I took the letters to Mrs. Gillis and asked her to tell me what they meant. I was probably not even Stella’s age at the time. She told me in no uncertain terms who and what I was. From that day on, I’ve lived in constant fear of being found out. When I was a child she threatened to tell the entire school if I misbehaved. For years I would cower in the corner afraid of being hated by the others. When I was older, I developed a backbone, of sorts, and stood up to Mrs. Gillis, telling her not to threaten me again.

  “I was expected to stay at the orphanage and work for the rest of my life to atone for the blood that ran in my veins.” She added the last bitterly. “I’m tired of the shadow that has hung over me. I read the letters again on my sixteenth birthday and have not read them since.” She handed him the picture. “Take off the back and read them.”

  “No.” He took the picture from her hand and placed it back on the table. “It doesn’t matter to me who your parents were.”

  “It matters to me.” She held out the picture. “Someone in this town knows. Someone plans to tell the story to humiliate me when the time is right, in the meanwhile tormenting me with the awareness that they know.”

  “I don’t want to do this, Jane.”

  “You must.” She was calm now. Her eyes pleaded with him. “I can’t bear to go through this again.”

  Fear of what he would find made T.C.’s fingers tremble as he pried the wooden back off the frame with his pocketknife. Next to the back of the canvas he found two envelopes addressed with faded ink.

  “Read the one addressed to Jenny Lou Love first.”

  Jane turned her back as soon as he picked up the letter and slipped the paper from the envelope. The silence in the room was deafening. Jane clenched her hands into fists and closed her eyes tightly as time stood still.

  T.C. read the letter quickly. It was written in bold script, the words plainly visible. A few lines in the middle of the one-page letter stood out from the others.

  It was the devil in you that caused you to seduce me. You flaunted your body when I was at my weakest. You used your soft naked flesh to lure me into fornicating with you. This child you bore is the spawn of the devil and you shall burn in everlasting hell for birthing her.

  Do not attempt to contact me again. I care not if you or your bastard starve. It would be a fitting end.

  The signature at the bottom of the letter caused T.C.’s mouth to go dry. He stared at it. The name was known by every man, woman and child throughout the Colorado and Wyoming territories.

  He glanced at Jane’s back, at her bowed head, and wanted to go to her, hold her and comfort her. Relief washed over him. He had feared her secret would be something he couldn’t deal with. He held a tight rein on his exuberance and reached for the other letter. He read it quickly, then returned the two sheets of paper to the envelope.

  Don’t cower. Don’t cower. Jane’s head was up, her shoulders straight. She appeared to be staring at something on the wall ahead.

  T.C. looked at her for an intense moment. Tall and slender, with that crown of glorious hair, she was like a wildflower, fragile, yet strong. She had been whipped viciously by the cruelties of life and had endured with her pride intact.

  Warmth and beauty surrounded her like an aura.

  He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. She was as rigid as a board when he turned her around. The eyes that met his held so much pain that for a moment he couldn’t speak. He could feel the tremors pass through her. He lowered his head to hers and pressed his lips to her trembling mouth.

  “Jane, sweetheart. Did you think I wouldn’t love you because of something your father did or didn’t do?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

  “I’ll always love you, Jane.”

  “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep,” she cautioned, and met his questioning eyes directly. The pain of longing marked her face with sadness.

  “It’s been drilled into your head since you were a child that somehow you are disgraced because of what he did. It isn’t true. Only you can disgrace yourself.”

  The look on his face was a look of love—for her. Oh, but later… when he came to understand, when it was known.

  “I can’t let you keep me with you. They’ll hate me and pity you for having married me. I couldn’t bear it. You must let me go.”

  The pain that pierced her heart whitened her face. She hurt so much that it seemed a flood of tears was trapped inside her body, yet she could not cry… not now. Pride had closed the valve on her tears so tightly that there was no way to release them.

  “I’ll never let you go. If you insist on leaving Timbertown, I’ll come with you. We’ll go to the ranch and to hell with everyone!”

  “I couldn’t let you leave after… all you’ve done here. The people depend on you.”

  “Then stay here, with me. I’m proud of the way you’ve handled the cards fate dealt you, and I’m more sure than ever that you’re the woman I want by my side for the rest of my life. If it becomes known who your father was, we’ll face it together.”

  “You… would do that?”

  “I’d walk through hell barefoot for you. You’re my love, my wife.”

  “You may be sure now… but later.”

  “Sweetheart, the idea that people would hate you was implanted in your mind when you were very young, and it has had an impact on your life far bigger than it should. Many people were affected by what your father did, not only at the time, but for years after. Still, it has nothing to do with you.”

  “After you think about it, you may change your mind.”

  “Don’t say anything like that again.” His voice was harsh in the quiet room.

  “Some folks believe in bad blood.”

  “And they think Indians are stupid! An Indian would never think such a thing—would never hold a child responsible for its father’s deeds.”

  “Someone here knows and plans to tell so that I, and now you, will be looked down on.”

  “I’ll go out and tell the whole damn town tomorrow. And if one, just one—”

  “—No! Oh, please—”

  T.C.’s tone softened when he saw the pain on her face.

  “Sweet, darlin’ girl. I would never do that.” She didn’t resist when he put his arms around her and drew her to him. “I always hoped to find a woman like you to share my life. I think I knew right from the start that you were the one. I love everything about you, sweetheart. Your pride, your courage—”

  He bent his head, hesitated for a moment, then kissed her lips. The emotional bruising of the past few days flowed away under the balm of his kiss. Her mouth clung in a moment of incredible sweetness.

  Jane put her arms around his waist. She couldn’t believe that the Indian part of him didn’t blame her. After allowing herself a few minutes of closeness, she pulled away and looked up at him.

  Very softly she said, “You’re part… Indian—”

  “My mother was English and Blackfoot. My father was Irish. Does my Indian blood bother you?”

  “No! No! Oh, goodness no. But I thought that because of it you’d… never forgive me.”

  His hands moved up to her shoulders again. “You’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness. The day I told you that T.C. stood for Thunder Cloud you looked as if I’d hit you. Was it because I have Indian blood?”

  “Partly, I guess. And partly because… I was liking you too much.”

  “You’ve not said that before.” He was perfectly still, letting his eyes, soft with love, drink in her face.

  “I couldn’t… then.”

  “Can you now?”

  Say it, her brain told her. Tell him you love him with all your heart and soul. The words had never been in her
vocabulary. She knew about love but never in connection with herself.

  “I care a great… deal for you.”

  “You care a great deal for Stella.”

  “But not the way I care for you.” Her palms caressed his cheeks.

  “Do you love me?’ There was an intense look on his face and his hands on her shoulders tightened.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I do!”

  “Can’t you say it, Jane? My pa used to say it to my mother every day. I grew up hearing it. He even said it to me. I love you, Timmie. When he was dressing me down for something I had done wrong, he’d say, ‘Timothy Charles Kilkenny, ‘tis no way fer a man to be actin.” ” He quoted his father in a heavy Irish brogue.

  “Your name isn’t Thunder Cloud?”

  “No, darlin’, I was teasing.” He held her face between his palms. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  “I… love you, Timothy Charles Kilkenny.”

  “It wasn’t so hard to say, was it?”

  “I’ve said it before.”

  “The more you say it, the easier it’ll be.”

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  He held her close, her head buried in his shoulder while he gently stroked her hair. He turned her face up to his and kissed her mouth fiercely, passionately, hungrily. Jane closed her eyes and moved her lips against his, loving the smell of his skin, his mouth that had turned demanding. He lifted his head and looked directly into her eyes, a faint smile softening that mouth.

  “I wanted to marry you the second day you were here,” he murmured. “You were spunky, willful, and bucked me at every turn. Even Doc said I’d be ten times a fool if I let you get away from me. You’ll never be alone again, sweetheart. I’ll find out who hurt you.” He gently stroked the scratches on her cheeks. “No one will hurt you ever again. I swear it.”

  In a kind of fascination she watched his lips move. The soft light of the lamp shone on his face, on his hair. She felt the feathery touch of his lips against hers and sudden tears ached behind her eyes.

  “Jane, love, you’re mine now. We’ll face whatever comes together.”

  Jane put her arms around his neck, moved her hand to the back of his head and gently stroked his hair. The very strange feeling of belonging washed over her.

  And… the incredibly sweet feeling of coming home.

  Chapter 21

  COLIN knew that Herb was looking for him.

  Earlier he had gone to the rooming house to see Sunday and had not been allowed past the front door. Mrs. Miller had told him that she was sick and had gone to bed. Sick, my hind leg, Colin thought. She had been madder than a stepped on snake and twice as dangerous when he had last seen her.

  Keeping to the shadows, Colin watched Herb make the rounds: the cookhouse, the saloon, the store, the livery, and lastly the boarding house where he, too, had been turned away by Mrs. Miller.

  Colin stayed out of Herb’s sight until he saw him go back to the house. All day long he’d had it in the back of his mind that Sunday had talked to Patrice and that Patrice had told her some big yarn about the two of them that caused the remark about playing around in Mrs. Cabeza’s drawers.

  Hell! All the playing around with Patrice he’d done was six or eight years ago when he was a youth and as horny as a billy goat. At that, she’d only let him touch her with his hand. Even at a very young age, Patrice knew that her virginity was a valuable asset.

  When the danger of running into Herb had passed, Colin stepped out onto the street and walked toward the hotel. Patrice was not going to give up something she wanted without using every dirty trick she knew to get it—and she apparently wanted his protection against Ramon. Something more was going on between her and Ramon than just her desire to leave him. Patrice Guzman Cabeza must have her sights set on something she thought to be higher and richer than Ramon Cabeza.

  No one was at the desk when he walked into the hotel, and there was no bell to ring. When Colin slapped his hand down hard several times on the counter, a man came through a curtained door at the back.

  “Evening, sir.”

  “What room is Mrs. Cabeza in?”

  “Ah, yes. Lovely lady. Room three. Upstairs, first door on the left.”

  Colin took the stairs two at a time. He reached the landing and glanced back over his shoulder to see that the hotel man had come to the foot of the stairs to watch him. His boot heels sounded hollow on the wooden floor as he walked rapidly down the hall to room number three. He rapped on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Colin.”

  The door opened immediately. Patrice stood there in a soft, silky, white robe. Her black hair, parted in the middle, was loose and hung straight and shiny to her hips. The scent of rose petals wafted from the room and out into the hallway where Colin stood.

  “Colin! Come in.” Patrice reached out, took him by the hand and gently tugged.

  He walked into the middle of the room and looked around. He heard the faint click of the door as it closed behind him. In the few days she had been there, Patrice had made the room her own.

  With her unlimited funds Patrice had purchased from the store a china pitcher-and-bowl set to replace the tin sets hotels usually provided. On the chair beside the curtained window was a deep cushion. Soft blankets lay folded on the foot of the bed. Atop the bureau lay an ivory brush and mirror set and an array of small jars. A large bearskin rug covered the floor beside the bed.

  Colin turned to Patrice, who was leaning back against the closed door. Her beautiful face was arranged in a smile of welcome.

  “Take off your hat, Colin.”

  He had left it on deliberately. He knew and Patrice knew that no gentleman would leave his hat on while in the room with a lady if he respected her. He ignored the request and stared at her until she moved away from the door and toward him.

  “I’m so glad you came—”

  “What did you say to Sunday Polinski?” he asked, harshly shaking her hand from his arm.

  “Who?” A questioning frown wrinkled her brow.

  “You know damn good and well who I mean. What did you say to her?”

  “Oh, you mean that woman who looks as if she’s never used a hairbrush? The one with the vulgar laugh? Who walks as if she were a man? I wondered what her name was.” She took his arm again, this time in her hands, and held it between her breasts.

  “What did you say to her?” Colin shook off her hands again, grabbed her upper arms and held her away from him.

  “Sit down if you want to have a conversation with me. It hurts my neck to be looking up at you.”

  Colin flung the cushion from the chair, turned it from the window and straddled it. His arms looped over the back. Patrice sat on the edge of the bed.

  “She came here this monin’—”

  Patrice smiled. “You’re jealous! You’ve been watching to see who comes calling on me.”

  “I have told you any number of times that any interest I had in you died when you married Ramon. Why don’t you let it go at that?”

  “I can’t… now.” She pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from the sleeve of her robe and sniffed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Gawddammit! Stop dancing around. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “Oh, Colin! You are terribly dense for a man your age. Remember when we were last together?”

  “How can I forget? You came to my hotel room in Santa Fe and did your level best to get me shot.”

  “No, darling, no. I wanted to see you, had to see you.”

  “If Ramon had found you in my room, he’d have had a perfect right to come gunning for me.”

  “Not Ramon.” She shrugged. “He’d have sent someone to do his dirty work for him.”

  “What’s that got to do with now?”

  “You made me pregnant that night. You’re going to be a father, Colin.”

  For an instant Colin sat in stunned silence. Then his chair we
nt over with a crash as he lunged to his feet.

  “What… did you say?”

  “You heard me. Isn’t it wonderful, darling?”

  “You rotten—”

  “—Bitch. Go ahead and say it.” Patrice laughed. “You called me your hot little bitch… that night.”

  “It is not true and you know it,” he shouted.

  “Darling, keep your voice down. The hotel man will be up here with a shotgun.”

  “You’re not any more pregnant than I am. You think Ramon will come looking for you, then come after me, and I’ll kill him for you. Get another plan, Patrice. I’ll not do it.”

  “You’d let Ramon kill you?”

  “Of course not. I’ll prove to him that you’re a liar.”

  “Prove that you didn’t make me pregnant? How are you going to do that?”

  “We’ve never been together like that and you know it.”

  “Not because you didn’t want to.”

  “I’ve not had a thought about you like that since you were sixteen.”

  “It’s your baby,” she said confidently. “Would you deny your own son… or daughter?”

  “Why are you doin’ this, Patrice?” Colin paced back and forth across the room.

  “I want a father for my child.”

  “Your husband is the father of your child.”

  “Oh, pooh! Ramon will know it isn’t his.”

  “You don’t sleep with him?”

  “You’re hoping I don’t!”

  “I don’t give a damn if you sleep with the whole Mexican army.”

  “Ramon would care. He’s very possessive of his belongings.”

  “It’s his right to expect loyalty from his wife.”

  “Loyalty? Ramon doesn’t know the meaning of the word. You know as well as I that Ramon dips his wick in every little twat he lays eyes on. If he were half a man,”—her voice dripped sarcasm—”he’d have fathered his own Mexican army by now.”