by John Foxjohn
Hollowness settled in Andy’s chest. “What are you telling me, Ate?”
Andy’s father puffed on the pipe, but it had gone out. He tapped the bowl on a log beside the fire to empty it before looking at Andy. “You are welcome here, but my lodge is not where you need to be. I am old and my time is short. You cannot be happy as an Indian. You cannot have the life you deserve in my lodge.”
With heaviness in his heart, a void, Andy stood, feeling he’d lost something good in his life. Worm stood when he did—the huge white man with jet-black hair and the small Indian with snow on the top. With unashamed tears cascading down his cheeks, Andy engulfed his father. Each had love for the other, but neither would ever say it. It was enough they knew.
A young boy materialized with Big Red. As Andy mounted, he glanced at his father. He too had tears glistening on his cheeks.
Without a word, Andy turned his horse and left the village. Once high on the slope, he turned to look. Worm remained where he was, watching. Sadness permeated deep in Andy’s chest. His father had two natural sons and one adopted. The whites killed his two natural sons and he sent his other one, one he loved as much as the naturals, away for his benefit.
Worm slowly raised a hand to wave. When Andy returned it, he gigged Big Red forward.
Andy arrived at his father’s village at noon, and he hadn’t stayed long. Glancing at the sun, he realized he could make it back to Fort Robinson before it got dark if he pushed it. He leaned forward and patted the horse’s neck. “For better or worse, it’s just you and me, boy.”
As the miles clipped by, Andy twice stopped and let the big horse rest and crop grass, and once to drink. In truth, the horse could have continued without the rest, but Andy didn’t want to push him unless he had to.
The horse dipped down into a wooded draw only a few miles from the fort. The area was teeming with birds and the singing was relaxing. Big Red skirted a downed tree showing beaver marks. As they came back on the trail, a bird lit about thirty yards in front of them, but it immediately took off, wings flapping.
Andy grabbed his rifle and left the saddle in a long dive. He hit the ground with a shot ringing in his ears.
Chapter Two
William Martin leaned back in his chair. With feet on his disfigured desk, he stuffed his pipe with cherry-flavored tobacco, lit it, and inhaled the fragrant smoke. At the noon hour, his dry goods store was relatively slow and he didn’t need to worry about customers. The door had a bell that would alert him if anyone came in.
Although his business was doing very well, he had a huge problem and didn’t know what to do about it.
The problem was his daughter Abigail, or Abbey, as everyone called her.
At twenty and a time when most young women her age had settled down and had children, Abbey was bordering on becoming an old maid. The fact that she wasn’t married yet didn’t bother him that much. It was the company she was keeping, and her attitude.
He liked Andy Johansson as a person, and even employed him on occasion, but not as a caller on Abigail, or a husband. The young man was calling on his daughter, and he was afraid Abigail liked it too much.
No self-respecting father would want the boy anywhere near his daughter. He had no white skills of any kind, no future, and no way to get any. Besides all that, he had lived with the savages most of his life and even had an Indian wife at one time. Even though he liked the boy, he was a savage himself, and he wasn’t about to let him haul his daughter off to some tepee on a reservation. The only way that would happen would be over his dead body.
That was where his problem came in. Abigail was as stubborn and pigheaded as anyone he’d ever seen. That’s why she wasn’t married to begin with. She’d made up her mind she’d wait till the right one came along and come hell or high water, or old age, nothing would deter her from that course. If he set his foot down and told her the boy couldn’t come calling, she just might invite him to show him he couldn’t tell her who to see.
She was a beautiful young woman and had many suitors—all of whom had prospects for the future, and could take care of her, but she didn’t seem to favor anyone over the others. Nor did she discourage any. Johansson in particular, he’d love for her to dampen his spirits. The man was just not suitable company for his daughter, and he would have to do something about it.
When the bell rang, he sighed, set his pipe aside, and rose. He parted the curtains separating the store from his office and found Mrs. Pierce at the counter. He smiled, “Good day, ma’am. How can I help you?”
“Can I pick these supplies up in an hour?” She passed a list across the counter.
He glanced at his watch. He expected Abbey to come in and it would be a good job for her. Mrs. Pierce would get on to her—another voice of reason. He preferred she stayed at home but she insisted she wanted to help in the store. “I’ll have my daughter fill it for you. She’ll be in shortly.”
The woman’s face pinched into deep frown. “Working in a store is no place for a young maiden,” the woman snapped.
Martin’s mouth creased into a thin line. He knew that, his wife knew it; in fact, everyone in town knew it, except the one who counted—Abigail. He shrugged, “Yes, ma’am.”
Before the woman could say any more, the bell clanged again, and Lloyd Stephens, the owner of the town’s supply business, strolled in. Stephens was tall, handsome, and had twenty wagons working to keep the town supplied and no competition. Although young, in his early thirties, he was well on his way to becoming one of Heath’s most successful businessmen. He was also single.
Stephens smiled when he spotted Mrs. Pierce. He caught both her hands in his. “Ma’am, you get better looking every time I see you. If I was twenty years older I’d be trying to get rid of Mr. Pierce so I could call on you.”
“You naughty boy.” She waved him off like someone swatting a fly, but her actions and words didn’t match the pure enjoyment on her face. She whirled to face William. “You should be setting that daughter of yours up with him. They’d make a great couple.”
“Ma’am, Mr. Martin has invited me to dinner a couple of times and encouraged me to call on Abigail,” he said, taking the pressure off the storeowner.
With hands on hips, she demanded, “Then when are the two of you getting married?”
“You need to ask Abigail that question.”
She shook a boney finger at him. “Don’t you think I won’t,” she said as she swished out.
When the bell rang announcing the older woman’s leaving, Stephens turned to the store owner. “Whee, she has some strong opinions.”
William Martin arched an eyebrow. “Twenty years? Really?”
Stephens chuckled. “Maybe thirty. Can I get a tin of tobacco, William?”
The older man turned and reached up on a shelf, brought a can down, and slid it across the counter. When Stephens slapped a dime on the counter, he retrieved it, made change, and handed him back a nickel. He glanced up. “How would you like to come to the house for supper tonight?”
A bright smile flashed on the younger man’s face. “Let me weigh the pros and cons. I can stay at my house and eat the slop I cook and endure the company of some ugly men. Or, I can come to your nice house to a wonderful meal, and enjoy your company, and that says nothing of Abigail and your lovely wife.”
Looking upward with an index finger stuck in his cheek as if contemplating the answer, he said, “Six as usual?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “See you then, and thanks for the invite, William.”
Martin shook his head. For the life of him, he would never understand why Abigail hadn’t accepted the man’s proposal. Lloyd had proposed to her on two separate occasions. Martin had only known his wife a week when he asked her and she said yes.
The man had everything—looks, charm, breeding, intelligence, and success. What was wrong with Abigail, anyway?
He jerked a box out from under the counter and opened it. He began taking jeans out, sorting them by size. He was almost throu
gh with the task when the bell rang and Abigail entered. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that. William didn’t know where she got the blonde hair or blue eyes, but she made men’s heads turn when she walked down the street.
“Good afternoon, Papa,” she said.
Sighing, he replied, “Good afternoon, Abbey.” He moved down the counter and retrieved Mrs. Pierce’s list. “She’ll be back shortly and wants this filled.”
With her head cocked, she took the paper but continued to look at her father instead of the list. “What? No lectures about me working here?”
He shook his head. “I’ve given up. Ain’t done no good anyway. You do what you want.”
“Papa, I simply can’t stay in the house all day and all night doing nothing. Mom does all the housework and everything. You won’t let me go riding.”
When he didn’t answer, she turned to Mrs. Pierce’s list. She had no doubt she was in for another lecture from the older woman when she came back, and that was the reason her father gave her the task of getting it together.
She found a box in the back and began finding the items on the list and placing them in the box. She couldn’t make anyone, even her parents, understand that she wasn’t about to settle. She wanted a husband. Someone she could respect and he would respect her, not for her looks, but who she was. She wasn’t going to be someone’s window dressing. With a husband, she wanted a family and home, but with the right man or none at all. She cared about her parents’ opinions and thoughts. She wanted to please them, but it was her future, and she was the one who should decide it.
Her father hadn’t said much about Andy coming over, but she could tell he didn’t like it. He definitely wasn’t the one they would choose for her, and her mother had voiced this sentiment on several occasions. Her father was playing coy with the idea, but she knew what he thought.
She didn’t understand her attraction to Andy, either. He was shy around her, and it was difficult to get him to open up. She attributed that to him not being around white people, and especially white women. Also, although he spoke the language, he didn’t always understand what the words meant. He was just eight when the Indians captured him and his vocabulary hadn’t developed.
Unlike the others, she sensed vulnerability in Andy. The others wanted her, she had no doubt. She could see the lust in their eyes. They were always flattering her, telling her how beautiful she was. She guessed it was true, but the fact didn’t impress her.
Where the others wanted her, Andy needed her, and she sensed it had nothing to do with her looks but who she was, and that was exactly what she was looking for. Someone who respected her as a person and could build a future with.
He was massive but moved with the grace of a cat. Often, when she looked at him, a funny feeling she wouldn’t let herself understand, one that good girls didn’t have, swept through her. Her stomach fluttered and her face flushed. The heat built inside her and embarrassed her even more. Although he’d never touched her, she could visualize him wrapping those huge arms around her.
“Abigail, you okay?” her father asked.
His words jerked her out of her thoughts. “Yes, why?”
“You were smiling and your face was flushed.”
Even more heat exploded in her face. “Um, papa, I was just thinking. It’s hot in here.”
His eyes narrowed. “Uh-uh, doesn’t seem that hot to me.” A long moment passed as she finished filling Mrs. Pierce’s box.
“I haven’t seen Andy around lately. I have a shipment coming in and I’ll need his help unloading.”
“He’s been helping Mr. Sutter build his house,” she said. “He finished and rode to the reservation yesterday. He should be back.”
Martin stuffed his pipe with tobacco and lit it. When he had it going, he spoke around the stem in his mouth. “That’s the fourth house he’s helped build, isn’t it?
“Yes, Papa, he’s good at it.”
Her father mumbled something she didn’t hear, but she didn’t need to. Her blood boiled the way her parents and the people of the town treated Andy and talked about him behind his back. He couldn’t help it that the Indians had raised him. What would they have him do? He was eight and all by himself. Her father had always told her to judge a person by who he or she was on the inside. Now that she was doing that, he didn’t like it.
She was behind the counter when Mrs. Pierce came in. The woman marched to the counter and glared at her. “You put this on my account, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, as usual. It’s a nice day out, isn’t it?”
“Umph,” the older woman exclaimed. She glared at Abbey. “When you and that nice Lloyd Stephens getting married?” She shook her finger at Abbey. “It’s not fitting a girl your age being in a store working. You should be home tending your children.”
Abbey knew she should keep her mouth shut but she couldn’t. “As far as I know I’m not getting married anytime soon.” She put a puzzled expression on her face. “Do you think I should go ahead and have the kids, though?”
The old woman sputtered, couldn’t say anything as her face twisted into a pickle, grabbed her box, and hurried out.
“Abigail,” her father said with consternation. “You were not raised to talk like that.”
She shrugged but didn’t say anything. She should be ashamed, but she wasn’t. No one ever asked her what she wanted. All they did was tell her what she should do. Mrs. Pierce wasn’t the only one who had voiced the opinion about Lloyd. Just about everyone had, including her parents. He was a nice man. He did have a stable business and appeared to have a bright future, and if that was all she was looking for, he might be it, but it wasn’t.
Besides, there was something about him; something she couldn’t pinpoint. She liked him. He made her laugh, and he was always complementing her, but maybe too much. He was smooth, and that might be what was tingling the bell inside her head: he was too smooth.
When she daydreamed and a man came into her thoughts, it was always Andy, never Lloyd Stephens. Lloyd would make her family and friends happy. Andy would make her happy.
Lloyd Stephens left the dry goods store in a bad mood. He smiled as he passed people on the sidewalk, shook hands with some, clapped others on the back, but it was forced. His plans were working; his business was thriving and would continue to get better. He and his silent partner had played the people of the town like pawns in his game. Smile and compliment the old biddies, subtle flattery on the men, and they were all behind him.
He was in the process of taking over the blacksmith shop, but no one knew that. He’d had people behind the scenes who forced two other businesses out, and then they came in and bought up the property.
Another freight outfit had tried to come in, but his men ambushed them out of town, buried them, and included the stock and wagons with his own, and no one the wiser.
Lloyd Stephens intended to own Heath both monetarily and politically, but he had higher aspirations than just the little town. It would be the jumping off place for him. He could see himself as the governor once the territory achieved statehood, but even that was not high enough. He would be the top man, but to achieve that, he needed Abbey on his arm. He had everything: looks, charm, intelligence, but not her.
Twice he’d asked her to marry him, which infuriated him. It was almost like he was begging. He’d never needed to beg anyone. They either complied, or he took what he wanted.
She should be able to see what a catch he was. She hadn’t turned him down, but just said in that sweet voice, “It’s too early to discuss marriage.” What the hell did she mean it was too early? He wanted to ask her, but sensed he couldn’t push her.
Her mother and father were pushing for him. He even had that old biddy, Pierce working on the girl, but she still hadn’t come around to her senses.
The fact that he had competition for her affections never crossed his mind. No one could compete with him. He knew about Johansson, but Abbey just felt sorry for him. There was no w
ay she could have any feelings for him. Still, to be certain, he’d taken steps.
His stride lengthened, the heels of his boots pounding on the boardwalk as he approached his office at the end of the block and on the edge of town. He had a two-story building with a false front, and painted—unlike most of the places in town. The first floor where he conducted most of his business had a door facing the street. Inside, a staircase allowed access to the second floor where he kept a private office and living quarters. The upstairs office faced the rear of the building with stairs leading to the alley.
At his office door, he pulled his watch out, glanced at it, and frowned.
When he swung open the door, his clerk, Joshua Perkins, looked up, but before he could say anything, Stephens snapped, “I’ll be in my office. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
He headed for the stairs. He had to be careful how he talked to the swill in town but not someone who worked for him.
As he clumped up the stairs, he smelled the cheap cigar smoke before he reached his office door. Inside, he found Milton Spivey sitting in a chair across from his desk, feet up, a cloud of smoke lingering over his head.
Knocking feet down, he passed behind his desk, glaring at Spivey. “That better be a congratulations smoke.”
Spivey sat up, exhaled a huge puff, and laughed. “I scared the hell out of him, boss.”
Stephens cocked his head, and in a quiet voice said, “Scared the hell out of him?”
Spivey nodded with satisfaction.
His glare turned to pinpoints. “I sent you to kill him, not scare the hell out of him. Surely you’re about to tell me you killed him after you scared him. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in here with your feet on my desk smoking that awful mess.”
The smile disappeared from Spivey’s face. “Uh, boss, I didn’t exactly kill him.”
“What does that mean? He is either dead or he isn’t.” He pounded his fist on the desk. “Is he dead?”