Love's Serenade

by Madeline Baker

  She glanced up at the sky, noting for the first time in months how blue it was. There were flowers on the hillside, scattered clusters of pink and purple and white. And she had no one to share them with.

  She felt her happiness slip away, like water through a sieve. What difference did it make if she had a new skirt? Who was there to see it? What difference did it make if her garden lived or died, if she lived or died? No one knew she was here. No one cared that her husband was dead and her child had been kidnapped by savages. She was alone, more alone than she’d ever been in her life.

  With a strangled sob, she sank down to the ground and buried her face in her hands, crying as she had not cried since the day of the attack, weeping because she was alone and afraid.

  Toklanni sat on top of the hill overlooking the white woman’s house, his brow furrowed as he watched her cry. It was the first time he had seen her weep and it did odd things in the region of his heart. For a moment, he was tempted to go to her, to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he quickly shook the notion aside. His appearance would only frighten her and not just because of who he was.

  Hardly aware of what he was doing, he lifted a hand to his left cheek, letting his fingers slide over the scar that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw. With a grunt, he let his hand fall to his shoulder. The scar didn’t end at his jaw, it continued down the side of his neck, then slanted across his chest and belly to end at his right hip. It was a long, thin scar, souvenir of a knife fight with a Mexican soldier. When it was new, the women of the village had turned away, unable to look at him. But they were used to it now and no one spoke of it anymore.

  He leaned forward as the woman stood up, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen. As she turned toward the house, he noticed that she was wearing the skirt he’d brought her. It swirled around her ankles as she walked, the movement of the skirt and the unconscious sway of her hips decidedly feminine, decidedly alluring.

  He could take her, he thought. It would be so easy to ride down the hill and grab her, but he knew his mother would not have approved of such a thing. And if he took the woman to the village, everyone would know that he had not killed her.

  Sarah walked slowly back to the house, her shoulders slumped, her earlier good mood gone. She was alone, so alone. She almost wished the Indians would come back and finish what they’d started. Vern was dead and Danny was gone and she had no reason to go on living. Every day was the same. She was tired of being alone, tired of her own dreary company…

  She stopped in mid-stride, a chill snaking down her spine. She was being watched. She knew it. She whirled around, her gaze moving from the side of the house to the stream and back again, but there was no one there. And then she felt her gaze being drawn toward the low hill located a short distance away.

  Slowly, she lifted her gaze to the top of the rise and there, silhouetted against the midday sun, she saw an Indian astride a big gray horse.

  Sarah swallowed past the lump in her throat, wondering if it was her Good Samaritan. Squinting, she tried to get a better look at him, but the sun was in her eyes and all she could see was a dark-skinned man wearing a loose-fitting buckskin shirt and moccasins that reached mid-calf. And even as she watched, he reined his horse in a tight, rearing turn and disappeared from her sight.

  She thought about him all the rest of the day, unable to suppress the little shiver of fear that rippled through her as she remembered the Indian she’d come face to face with in the root cellar the day Vern had been killed. It was as close to an Indian as she’d ever been, as close as she ever hoped to be and it had frightened her to the very depths of her soul. The red and black paint smeared over his face and across his chest had made him seem like something out of a nightmare. There had been a necklace of what looked to be animal teeth at his throat, a feather in his long black hair. To this day, she wondered why he hadn’t killed her.

  That evening, she sat at the window gazing at the setting sun, wondering who the Indian was and why he watched her.

  She put the basket on the porch before she went to bed, smiling faintly as she imagined how surprised her benefactor would be when he found the apple tarts she’d made from the last of the dried apples. She hoped he’d realize it was her way of saying thank you for the skirt. Perhaps, if she could win his trust, he’d help her find Danny.

  Chapter Four

  Toklanni frowned at the sweet scent rising from within the basket. Lifting the cloth, he stared at the fragrant-smelling tarts lying in the bottom of the basket and then he smiled, realizing they were a gift from the white woman. Her way of saying thank you for the skirt, he supposed. His mouth watered in anticipation as he selected one of the pastries. Taking a big bite, he closed his eyes as his mouth filled with the taste of apples and sugar. It had been years since he’d tasted anything so good.

  That afternoon, he went into the hills and cut an armload of wood, which he left beside the basket the following night. A thank you for a thank you.

  Sarah blinked back tears as she saw the wood piled at her door. How had her Good Samaritan known she was out of firewood?

  She stared at the blisters on the palms of her hands, souvenirs of her last attempt at cutting wood. The axe had grown dull in the months since Vern’s death and she didn’t know how to sharpen it properly.

  She didn’t know anything, she thought bleakly. It had seemed like such an adventure when Vern told her they were moving west. He’d talked her into selling their dry goods store and buying a little spread in New Mexico. It had plenty of water and grass and they were going to raise cattle and get rich. Vern and Danny had been so excited at the prospect of leaving Providence that she’d pretended to be excited, too. Why hadn’t they realized sooner that they all lacked the skills necessary to survive in a harsh untamed land? Having grown up in a city, Vern didn’t know anything about raising cattle and she didn’t know anything about planting a vegetable garden, or making her own soap. She was at best an adequate cook and a poor seamstress.

  But there was no point in dwelling on the past, no point in wishing they’d stayed back east where they belonged.

  With a sigh, she carried the wood inside and stacked it beside the hearth, then returned for the basket. There were two rabbits inside, already skinned and gutted, as well as an assortment of wild onions, turnips and squaw cabbage.

  That night, as she prepared her dinner, Sarah pretended that the food had been left by a knight of the realm who had secretly loved her from afar and was only waiting for her broken heart to mend before he came forward and declared his love. She would fall in love with him the moment she saw his handsome face and he would carry her off on his white charger and they would live happily ever after.

  The images lingered in her mind as she ate her solitary meal, washed the dishes and put them away, got ready for bed. Happily ever after, she mused. If only real life was as rewarding as the fairy tales.

  Toklanni sat on his heels on the far side of the stream, hidden from view by a tangled mass of scrub brush and cottonwoods, his dark eyes intense as he watched the woman walk down toward the water. She stopped when she came to a large flat-topped rock. Sitting down, she removed her shoes and stockings, then, lifting her skirts to keep them dry, she made her way down to the stream, squealing a little as the cold water covered her feet and ankles. She walked back and forth in the purling water, smiling faintly. Once she stopped to pick up a small round stone, which she examined a moment before tossing it back into the stream.

  He liked looking at her, liked the way she moved, graceful as a willow in the wind. Her hair caught the light of sun, the water that clung to her legs glistened like dew drops. Sometimes when he looked at her, he saw a woman full grown, ripe and desirable. Her features were clean and well-defined, her waist was narrow, her neck slender. And sometimes he saw a curious little girl, her eyes filled with wonder.

  Now was one of those times. Her dark eyes were bright with interest as she bent to study a flower, stopped beneath a
cottonwood tree to watch a bird feed its young, paused to watch a squirrel scamper across a sunlit patch of ground.

  He felt a quickening in his heart, a tightening in his groin as his footsteps paralleled the woman’s. He could take her. The thought was always there in the back of his mind, had been there since the first time he saw her in the root cellar, her face pale, her eyes wide with fear. He grimaced as he imagined her reaction to his scars. Almost, he could see the revulsion in her eyes, hear her scream of horror as he reached out to touch her.

  He did not want to take her by force. He wanted her warm and willing, her lips parted in a smile of welcome, her dark eyes glowing with desire.

  He made a sound of disgust low in his throat. She would never be his and the sooner he stopped thinking of her day and night, the better.

  But he did not leave his hiding place among the cottonwoods.

  Sarah made her way out of the stream and retraced her steps to where she’d left her shoes and stockings. For a time, she sat on the sun-warmed rock, her legs stretched out in front of her. It was pleasant, sitting there in the sunlight. For a while she had forgotten her troubles, forgotten everything but the simple joy of being alive on a beautiful afternoon.

  She was reaching for her stockings when she paused, the hair along the back of her neck prickling. She was being watched again.

  Eyes narrowed, she stared at the foliage across the stream and gradually she made out the shape of a tall man clad in buckskins, the color of his skin and clothing blending almost perfectly into the surrounding underbrush.

  Picking up her skirts, she hurried to the edge of the stream and began wading across the water, wanting to get a better look at him, wanting to know who he was once and for all, certain that he was the same man who brought her food. A voice in the back of her mind warned her she might be asking for trouble, but she shook the niggling fear aside. He might know where Danny was and no risk was too great if it would help her discover her son’s whereabouts. Besides, if the Indian meant to do her harm, he’d surely have done it by now.

  She glanced down to check her footing when she neared the far bank and when she looked up again, he was gone.

  * * * * *

  Toklanni sat with a group of young warriors, listening as they boasted of their exploits in battle, bragging of the white men they had killed, of horses stolen, homes burned, women and children taken captive.

  He glanced up as his brother, Noche, perhaps the biggest braggart of all, began to speak, telling of the raid on the white man’s house and how he had killed the white man and taken his son.

  Toklanni grimaced. Noche made it sound like a big battle when, in fact, there had been only four warriors on the raid and it had been over in a matter of minutes.

  He shook his head as the man next to him prodded him in the ribs, urging him to tell of his daring in battle. He was in no mood to strut around while the others looked on. More than anything, he wanted to be alone in his wickiup with a woman in his arms. A white woman with hair like sunshine and eyes the color of a warm summer sky.

  Rising, he left the circle of wickiups and walked downriver.

  He had returned to the village for a change of clothes and to pick up some supplies. No one had questioned his absence. It was his way, to come and go as he pleased. He’d always been a man apart, had always felt that he didn’t quite belong.

  Leaning against a tree, he gazed up at the starlit sky, remembering his childhood…

  He couldn’t remember how old he was the first time he knew he was different, but one day he had looked at his mother, at the color of her hair, and realized she wasn’t like the other women in the tribe. That night he had asked his father why his mother’s hair wasn’t black. He would never forget that night, or the shock of learning that his mother was a white woman who had once been called Christine Talavera.

  Soon after that, his mother had taken him away from the rancheria. She was taking him home, she said, back to her people so he could learn to live the white man’s way. He had not wanted to go. He had begged his father to let him stay, but his father said he must go and so it was that they went to Santa Fe to live with his white grandparents. It was a bad time. People stared at his mother, at the blue tattoo on her forehead. They talked about her behind her back, saying cruel things that he didn’t fully understand at the time, things that made her cry in the night. Though he was only nine, he soon learned that “squaw” was a dirty word when a white man said it.

  It had been there, in Santa Fe, that he heard the word “half-breed” for the first time, heard the derision that accompanied the term, the suspicion, the hatred. Half-breed. Half Indian, half white.

  After six months, his mother packed up their belongings and went back to the rancheria. You were right, he heard his mother tell his father, and she never spoke of going home again.

  He’d been much older and his mother long dead when he heard the story of how his mother came to be with the People from his half brother, Noche. He would never forget his shock at learning that his father had captured his mother during an attack on a stagecoach and made her his woman against her will. When he had confronted his father with this knowledge, Uncas had admitted it was true.

  “And then you were born,” Uncas had said. “By then, I loved her with all my heart and when she asked to go back to her people, I could not refuse.”

  Though he was fully accepted by the People by the time he was a warrior, Toklanni never forgot who he was, never forgot the childish taunts that had followed him when he walked down the streets of Santa Fe, never forgot the suspicious looks, the hatred, the sense of being different…

  He pushed away from the tree, disgusted with himself for dwelling on what had happened so long ago.

  In the morning, he bridled the gray and rode away from the village. He would find more wood for the white woman. It would give him something to do besides think of the past.

  It was late afternoon when he reached a stand of timber. Dismounting, he tethered the gray nearby and began to gather an armful of fallen branches. When he had a good-sized bundle, he bound it together with a strip of rawhide, then began picking up more branches.

  “Woman’s work,” he muttered under his breath, and grimaced as he imagined what Noche would say if he knew his brother was looking after the white woman.

  Deep in his heart, he knew he didn’t care what Noche would say. The white woman had become important to him in a way he dared not examine too closely. He could not put her from his mind, could not stop thinking of her, living alone in the house. Could not stop thinking of the color of her hair, wondering what it would feel like in his hands.

  Too late, he heard the muffled sound of footsteps. He was reaching for his rifle when they attacked him, three white men reeking of cheap whiskey. Surrounding him, they used their rifles like clubs, crowing with delight as they hit him again and again.

  The first blow glanced off his right shoulder, the second drove him to his knees, the third smashed into his right side, the fourth sent him down into a world of swirling blackness…

  When he regained consciousness, the moon was low in the sky.

  For a moment, he lay still, afraid to breathe, reluctant to embrace the increased pain that any movement was sure to arouse. He moved his head slowly, staring right and left. His horse was gone, his rifle also.

  Gritting his teeth, he sat up, one arm wrapped protectively around his rib cage. The pain was worse than he’d imagined and he closed his eyes, fighting the nausea that churned in his stomach.

  When the world stopped spinning, he lifted a hand to his head, felt the blood matted in his hair. The distant cry of a wolf and the sudden splatter of raindrops warned him that he couldn’t stay where he was. Tilting his head back, he opened his mouth and let the rain drops trickle down his throat while he debated which way to go.

  Then, his jaw clenched with determination, he struggled to his feet and began walking, each slow step rekindling the pain in his head and side.


  Chapter Five

  Sarah sat in front of the fireplace, a blanket draped over her shoulders as she stared, unseeing, at the Bible in her lap. She’d been reading from the book of Job. His troubles had far outweighed her own, she mused, yet that thought gave little comfort as she listened to the soft patter of the rain on the roof.

  She leafed through the pages of the Bible until she came to the 25th Psalm and felt tears well in her eyes as she read, “Consider mine enemies; for they are many; and they hate me with a cruel hatred. O keep my soul and deliver me; let me not be ashamed, for I put my trust in thee…”

  She had put her trust in God, she thought as she read the verses a second time. She had no one else, only a mysterious stranger who disappeared whenever she got too close.

  Rising, she went into the kitchen and filled the coffee pot with water, thinking that she’d make do with a cup of sassafras tea and the last of the apple tarts for breakfast.

  Waiting for the tea to steep, she went to the window and gazed into the yard, gasped as she saw a man crumpled in the mud.

  Throwing her cloak around her shoulders, Sarah hurried outside, felt her breath catch in her throat as she realized the man was an Indian. Somehow, she knew it was the Indian who had been watching her. For a moment she stood there, afraid to get too close and then, seeing that he was unarmed, she dismissed her fears and knelt beside him.

  His stillness alarmed her and she shook his shoulder.

  “Don’t be dead,” she murmured. He couldn’t be dead. He was her only contact with humanity, her only chance, however slim, to discovering Danny’s whereabouts.