Danny picked up the whiskey bottle and took a swallow himself. “Well, I hope you get your wish, Pa. But I wouldn’t count too much on it, even though his Indian mother is dead now. His stepfather, Deer Slayer, he died, too, just last year. His oldest half-brother, Swift Arrow, rides in the north with the Sioux. I have contact with him at times, or at least I did before I defected. I may never see the West again.” He rose himself from his chair and came over to stand beside his father. “His other half-brother, Black Elk, lives among the Southern Cheyenne not far from Zeke’s ranch. The third brother, Red Eagle, is dead—shot himself after selling his wife for whiskey money. Red Eagle was the black sheep of the family, I guess you’d say. Swift Arrow and Black Elk are fine, proud men, good warriors. They stay away from the firewater.”
Hugh turned to face his son again, his eyes shocking Danny with their sorrow. “And Zeke? Is he a fine warrior?”
Danny grinned and nodded. “One of the best. He’s highly respected among the Cheyenne and other tribes, even though he’s a half-blood. Half-bloods aren’t always accepted readily into the tribe, but Zeke proved his courage in the Sun Dance, and he’s been proving it one way or another ever since.”
Hugh Monroe nodded sadly. “Well then, I sure had a flock of fine sons, didn’t I?” He patted Danny’s arm. “Life is strange. I had me four sons, yet as soon as you march off to war, I’ll have none. Who knows if you and Lance will ever come back. And God knows Zeke won’t.” He shook his head. “I’m a tired old man, Danny-boy. A tired old man full of regrets. But then I reckon there’s few men who live to my age who don’t have a lot of regrets.” He walked back to the table and sat down again. “So … where will you go, Danny?”
The younger man walked back to the table into the brighter light of the lantern, and Hugh Monroe was impressed and proud by his son’s handsomeness. He wondered how handsome Zeke was. He’d been a fine-looking lad, and that was the only way Hugh Monroe could picture his eldest son, for he’d been a very young man when he left Tennessee for good.
“I’m headed for Nashville. I’m told that’s where all the Tennessee Volunteers are headed, to meet up with General Sidney Johnston. The plan is to hold Tennessee, especially Bowling Green and Nashville, where all the industry and supplies are. And we have to keep the supply routes open—the Green River, the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers. That’s why I think this whole state will be a powder keg, Pa. The North will try to take Tennessee as fast as they can, cut off our supplies. I’ve got years of experience behind me. I want to volunteer my services to General Johnston as an officer.”
Hugh Monroe felt his heart tighten at the thought of anything happening to Danny. “There will be no comforts in this war, son. I have a feeling it will be worse than any duty you served out West. I’m told the volunteers out here get the short end of the supplies. President Davis keeps all the good stuff farther east and lets those in the border states make do with what’s left, which sometimes is nothing at all. This war won’t be a short one, son, and it will be damned bloody. I’ve heard some pretty sad stories from stragglers who’ve already been involved in the fighting. Your brother was lucky to die at Wilson’s Creek, the way I hear it. He was bad wounded in the leg and they’d … they’d had to … cut it off.” The old man’s voice trailed off and he bent his head and covered his eyes. “Lenny … could never have been happy that way … if he’d lived.”
Danny frowned and put a reassuring hand on his father’s shoulder as the rain pattered gently against the window pane. It seemed incredible to him that the roar of cannons could come to the peaceful hills that he’d known in his boyhood. Perhaps his father was wrong. Perhaps this war would end quickly. He hoped so. He missed Emily already. For some strange reason he suddenly thought of another woman, a lovely young Sioux girl he had loved once. But Small Cloud was dead now, a casualty from a different kind of war. It still pained his heart to think of it. So many Indians were dead or dying. It suddenly struck him how ironic it was that the Federal government was participating in a war to free the slaves, while at the same time it seemed everything was pointing to putting Indians on reservations as just one of many ways to rid the western lands of the “bothersome” Indians.
But none of that really mattered. He was a Tennessee man at heart, and Lenny had died for a cause. The cause was Tennessee’s right to make its own laws and decisions. Right now he would simply fight for Tennessee and the South. What happened to the slaves once they were freed would be another matter. And what happened to the Indians was out of his hands now, at least for the time being.
“At last we are alone!” Zeke said with a sigh. He added more wood to the small fire inside their tipi to ward off the chill the autumn night would bring. “We always seem to be surrounded by children.”
Abbie smiled and sat down on a bed of robes. “You don’t really mind all those children, now, do you?”
He glanced over at her, at first saying nothing, only thinking how much he loved this woman who had come into his lonely life so many years ago and had brought him so much love and joy. He smiled softly. “You know I don’t. They’re my pride and joy, every one of them special in his own way.”
She began brushing her thick, dark hair. “Are you sure they’ll be all right, Zeke?” she commented, her strong motherly instinct making her want to gather her children at her feet where she could watch over them herself.
“Of course they are. Wolf’s Blood and that wild animal of his are better protection than six men. You know that. Smoke wouldn’t let anyone with evil intentions get within a hundred yards of those kids,” he added, referring to his son’s pet wolf.
“I guess,” she answered, putting down the brush. Their eyes held. At their cabin on the Arkansas River in Colorado Territory, they had the privacy of their own bedroom. But on this journey they had either camped under the stars or erected only one tipi; either way, seven small Monroes had slept beside them.
“One Indian custom you’ve never learned is to quietly make love under the blankets even when your children are sleeping nearby,” Zeke teased. “Most all Cheyenne children have heard or even seen their father and mother mating at one time or another. It’s as natural as the animals.”
Abbie reddened deeply. “Those children’s parents grew up the same way,” she answered. “I did not. There are some things about me that will always be white, my husband, and one of them is making love in private.”
He grinned and moved over to kneel in front of her, unlacing the shoulders of her tunic. “Well, you have privacy now, Mrs. Monroe.” Her heart quickened as he let the tunic drop to her waist and he lightly kissed the fruits of her breasts.
“Zeke,” she said softly, touching his hair. He moved his lips to her neck and gently layed her back, caressing her cheek then with his lips.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked quietly. “You’re as tense as a frightened deer.”
“I am frightened,” she answered. “Are you sure you can handle that man tomorrow? I mean, you’re wounded, and—”
His mouth covered hers tenderly, cutting off her words. The kiss lingered hungrily until he felt her relax and she breathed a soft whimper. This big, fierce man who was her husband and the only man who had ever done these things to her never failed to bring forth great passion from her soul, never failed to be gentle, conscious of her woman’s needs, never failed to bring excitement and satisfaction to their lovemaking. The coming together of their bodies held the special beauty and total pleasure that comes only to those who have shared lives for many years, those who have suffered and wept together, struggled and worked together, played and laughed together, those who know one another’s thoughts, fears, haunting memories and needs.
“Don’t worry about tomorrow when we have tonight,” he whispered passionately. He moved back down over her breasts to kiss her flat belly and pulled the tunic down farther. His lips moving down over secret places known only to Zeke Monroe and over slim thighs, he removed the tunic completely.
&
nbsp; He sat up on his knees and just looked at her a moment, drinking in her beauty. Here lay the woman he had invaded when she was hardly more than a little girl, the woman who had turned to him for love and protection so many years ago when she had lost all her family on her journey west, the woman who had sacrificed everything, even most of her white identity, to be the wife of a half-breed and live among his people.
“I don’t think you’ll ever age, Abbie-girl,” he told her with a teasing smile, as she curled up slightly when his eyes lingered on her nakedness.
“That is only because you see me every day,” she told him. “I’ve changed since I was fifteen years old, and I certainly wasn’t getting younger in the process.”
He shook his head. “If you’ve changed at all, it was only to become more beautiful and to fill out in all the right places,” he told her, removing his clothing. She felt the same old tingle at the sight of his broad, dark shoulders that glowed bronze in the firelight. The many scars did nothing to detract from the virile handsomeness of this rock-hard man who would soon fill her with his life again.
Again he saw the traces of worry in her eyes. “Zeke, I—”
He stilled her worry with a kiss, his strength and power and manly needs, combined with the gentle touch of his big, familiar hands on her bare skin, making her submit as she had always submitted to this man. She whimpered as his fiery kiss drew forth her own desires, and his gentle hands moved over her body, taking in the texture of her silky breasts, the soft skin of her belly and bottom, the welcoming moistness in sweet, warm places reserved only for Zeke Monroe.
Her breathing was deep, her eyes closed as her man took liberties with her body. In spite of the years, the children and the terrible struggles they had suffered together in this harsh land, they still had this. Their powerful love had kept them together and had kept this expression of their love always sweet and beautiful.
“My little virgin child,” he whispered as his lips brushed teasingly against her ear and his hand explored and caressed, bringing forth wonderful passions. “Nemehotatse,” he moaned, voicing “I love you” in Cheyenne. Always he had ways to taking her back over the years … back to that first time he had claimed her in the foothills of the Rockies before she was even truly his wife … back to the frightened, lonely woman-child she was that fateful night when she gave herself to the half-breed scout.
That one act had sealed the destiny of Abigail Trent forever. At times it seemed a savage destiny, with all of its hardships and cruelties, and because of the savageness of the very man she had married and of his people. But when they were together this way, there was nothing savage about him, except perhaps his dark skin and fiery eyes and the wanton savageness he drew from her own soul, forcing her to give and give, to arch up to him and cry out for him and grasp his arms tightly, sometimes almost bruising them with her grip when his manliness surged inside of her, filling her almost painfully, claiming again that which belonged only to Zeke Monroe.
He sat up slightly as he took her, running his hands over her breasts and ribs and belly. “You are still so beautiful,” he told her softly, his excitement enhanced by the way she still blushed when he looked upon her nakedness. He came closer again, and she ran her hands over the broad, dark shoulders, touching the gauze still wrapped around his arm. How thin was the line between life and death! He saw the renewed fear in her eyes, and he pushed deeper, telling her with his own eyes and with his body that she must not worry or be afraid, that she should enjoy the glorious, private moment at hand.
Her eyes became glazed with passion and her breathing quickened, and a moment later she cried out with the wonderful explosion his lovemaking brought to her insides. He came close then, enveloping her in his arms, holding her tightly until their passion was finally spent and their bodies close but limp. It had been a long, tiring day, the strain of the buffalo hunters’ attack quickly taking its toll. Zeke was soon asleep, but Abbie slept fitfully, worried about the knife fight that was to take place the next day, and on which some soldiers were still placing bets.
Four
Winston Garvey traced a fat finger along the map that hung on his wall, following the North Platte, then south through Denver and down to the Arkansas River, east into Kansas Territory and back up to the Platte.
“That used to be Indian treaty land,” he explained to his son. “But thanks to the Treaty of Fort Wise, it’s all been cut down to just a little chunk—here, right here.” He pointed to a tiny square of land in the southeast portion of Colorado Territory, bordered on the south by the Arkansas River. “That’s all that’s left to the bastards. Most of the Cheyenne don’t agree to the new treaty and refuse to abide by it, but it’s been made law, nonetheless, and all that land is open to settlers now. I’m buying up all I can, son. I want you to know all about my affairs. I’m getting on in years, and my empire will one day be yours.”
Charles Garvey’s eyes lit up hungrily. He wanted to know everything there was to know. He wanted to be the richest and most powerful man in Colorado Territory one day, and he wanted a hand in Indian affairs; namely, he wanted a hand in eliminating the Indians completely from Colorado.
“I want to understand, Father,” the gangly and rather homely teen-ager told Garvey. “I want you to be proud of me.”
“I’m already proud of you, son. Soon you’ll graduate high school and go east to college. But I don’t want you getting mixed up in that damned Civil War. If you’re ever going to go to war, it will be against the Indians, not your own kind. Our interest lies out here, son. You remember that. I’ll help you make it to the top some day, Charles. I have the money and influence to do it. Don’t forget I used to be a senator, and some people still call me that. I have a lot of connections in Washington, and some day you’ll be up there helping make the laws—laws that can be designed to rid this territory of every last redskin that stands in the way of settlement and mining!”
Charles grinned. He hated all Indians. They had killed his mother when he was a small boy, and his father had taken advantage of the boy’s memory by instilling in him an ever-growing hatred for every red man of the West. Winston Garvey’s reason was not a desire for vengeance for the death of a young and spoiled wife he had never loved; his reason was purely a desire to possess as much land and power in the West as he could obtain. He had used his son’s fear and hatred of the Indian to further his own plans of conquest. He wanted to be certain that once he was dead, the Garvey empire would live on through his son. It was best to nurture the boy’s hatred of the Indians. No matter that Charles thought it was Cheyenne who had killed his mother, even though his father knew it had been Comanches. It was Cheyennes who were the most numerous in Colorado, so let his son hate them. It would only aid to ensure Charles Garvey would one day design laws to eliminate the bothersome natives of Colorado from their homeland.
“I don’t understand why we can’t just set a bounty on the Indians,” the boy complained, studying the map again. “They are no different from wolves or coyotes or skunks. One is the same as the other.”
“You’re young and eager, son,” Winston answered, patting the boy’s shoulder. “One thing you have to remember if you’re going to be a congressman some day is to always appear to be a great humanitarian. There are ways of fooling the public, Charles, and I will teach you how it’s done. But never voice such emotions in public. Always wait until the public voices such feelings to you. If the general outcry is to kill the Indians, then you can be safe in declaring open season on them. But it must never be your own idea. Otherwise you’ll get branded as too radical. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The boy nodded. “I understand, but I wish it wasn’t that way. It would be more fun to ride through their camps and rape the women and run a sword through all their damned maggot kids and shoot the men on sight.”
Winston chuckled. “Patience, my boy! It isn’t that easy.”
The boy shrugged. “It would be if I were in control.” His eyes gleamed, a
nd his cold smile gave even his father a chill. Winston walked around behind his desk.
“You been making any headway with Jim Danhart’s girl?” he asked, suddenly feeling he’d better change the subject.
Charles made a face. “She’s too stuck up.”
“Her father is a big rancher. Owns a lot of land.”
The boy walked to look out a window. “So what? I don’t need her kind. Besides, her kind gets serious, and I’m too young to get serious. I have an education and a career to think about first.” He knew in the back of his mind the real reason Susan Danhart wouldn’t look twice at him, yet he could not bring himself to admit it, for he was Charles Garvey, rich and able to have whatever he wanted. So what if he was homely? Girls should want to be with him just because of who he was. “I prefer the whores at Anna’s place,” he added.
Winston chuckled. “Can’t blame you there, son. Those ladies can show a young boy a real good time.”
The boy turned. “All except Anna. She’s the one I want, but she won’t sleep with me. I don’t think she likes me.”
Winston lost his smile. “I’ll talk to her. She shouldn’t shun you that way. Who does that bitch think she is?”
Charles grinned. “That’s the way I look at it. I want her more than the rest of them. She’s the prettiest. But just because she’s the boss of the place, she says she doesn’t have to sleep with me if she doesn’t want to.”
Winston frowned. There had been a time when he all but owned Anna Gale. He had brought her west years ago, all the way from Washington, D.C. He had set her up first in Santa Fe, then moved her to Denver when gold was discovered there and the men flocked to the Rockies. Anna Gale was rich now because of him. But she knew the secret—the terrible secret that had released his power over her. His son must never know what Anna knew: Winston Garvey had a half-breed son. Garvey had tried to find out who the child was and who the mother was, for unknown to his son or second wife, the man had slept with several different Indian women over the years, most of them by force. But Anna swore she knew nothing more but that the child existed. Whoever had told her about the child had given her no details, and she would not tell Garvey where she had received her information. Garvey did not doubt that the child existed, and if Charles found out his father had layed with a squaw and had produced a half-brother that was part Indian, the already slightly demented boy would go crazy with the horror of it.
Embrace the Wild Land Page 4