Embrace the Wild Land

by Rosanne Bittner

  She smiled slyly through painted lips, coming back over to the love seat and sitting down beside the man, crossing her legs and letting the robe fall away from her so that her legs were bare to her naked hips. “What if he has?” she asked cautiously.

  Garvey studied the slim, velvety thighs and wondered how she stayed so well preserved. “The man wants to borrow some money from me. He has a ranch about twenty miles north of here, on the South Platte. He’s using it for collateral—wants to mortgage it in return for money he’ll give to the Union to support their cause.”

  Anna shrugged. “So? Lend it to him.”

  “It isn’t that simple. I’m for supporting the Union, partly because I know they’ll win the war, and partly because the sooner we get this war over with, the sooner we can turn our attention to the Indians and put them in their place. But if the man’s a Union sympathizer, then he’s also anti-slavery. And if he’s anti-slavery, he might also have a soft spot for the Indians. I’ll not lend money to any man who might fight for Indian rights.”

  She grinned and shook her head. “You’re really an Indian hater, aren’t you?”

  “You know anyone in Denver who loves them?”

  She looked away, thinking with a flutter of desire about one Indian she knew. But Zeke Monroe was happily married. Men like Zeke were not for the likes of Anna Gale. No decent man wanted a woman who had slept with so many men she had long ago lost count. “There might be a few,” she replied wistfully.

  “Then they’re stupid!” Garvey sneered. He took another sip of his drink. “And I won’t lend money to one. If Silverthorn ever comes here to sleep with you, try to find out his feelings. And ask around. I want some answers as fast as I can get them. I don’t have much time.”

  She arched her eyebrows and looked at him. “What are you worried about? If he proves to be an Indian lover, you can always foreclose on him and take his land. Lord knows you’ve done worse to others.”

  Garvey chuckled with satisfaction over his own evil. “Anna. Anna,” he replied with mock admiration, running a hand along her bare thigh. “Only you really understand me. Only you know my deepest secrets.” He untied her robe and pulled it open, exposing her nakedness. “Perhaps I should have you disposed of, my pet.” He ran the back of his hand over her breast. “You know too much.”

  She only smiled. “You won’t get rid of me,” she purred, moving closer and slinging her legs over his lap. “I’ve never betrayed you, Senator. I could have ruined you years ago back in Washington, but I didn’t do it. Now I’m a free woman, with no more debts to you. But I still do your spying for you, you devil. You’ll lose a valuable source of information if you get rid of me.”

  He sighed and nestled his puffy face between her breasts, unable to see the sneer of revulsion on her lips at his touch. “Ah, but you have betrayed me, sweet Anna,” he answered. “You won’t tell me where I can find my half-breed son.”

  “Why should I tell you? So you can kill the poor child? He’s doing you no harm. I may be a lot of bad things, my darling Senator. But I won’t be a part of harming children.”

  He raised his head and looked at her through the slits of his puffy eyes. “I told you once I won’t kill him.”

  She ran a lovely, slender finger around his face. “I know you too well,” she answered. “You would most certainly get rid of him. If your son ever finds out you slept with Indian women and sired a son by one of them, he’d probably shoot you himself. I swear, that boy is slightly crazed when it comes to Indians.”

  Garvey shrugged. “You can’t blame him. Indians killed his mother.”

  “And I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to do with feeding the boy’s hatred, have you?” she answered sarcastically. She layed back, stretching out across the love seat and resting her head on the arm. “Besides, I’ve told you before that I only know the boy exists. I have no idea where he is, and I’ll not tell you how I even got that much information.” She thought again of Zeke, and her body felt on fire. There were men like Garvey, and then there were men like Zeke. There was no comparison.

  The senator ran his hand over her milky white skin. “I’ll get it out of you some day, you little vixen.”

  She bent one leg and dropped it to the side, exposing herself for him. “Perhaps. But I doubt it. Treat me right, and I’ll treat you right, Senator. By helping each other, we both remain very rich. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? Forget about the boy.” She tried to sound casual, but she always dreaded the fact that he might press the matter. She did not ever want to have to tell this evil man how she had got the information that she now held over him—information that kept him in her power. For to tell him would be to lose her hold on him, and worse than that, it would mean betraying Zeke Monroe.

  “Then I’ll find out some other way,” the senator grumbled.

  She shrugged. “Go ahead and try.”

  The man toyed with her in places now familiar to him and she closed her eyes. “Anna, I want you to do something else for me. I’ll pay you a great deal of money.”

  She eyed him warily. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I want you to go to bed with my son. Charles is very fond of you. But he tells me you won’t do business with him.”

  Her stomach churned with revulsion. There was something repulsive about Charles Garvey. It was not just his looks, which were finally just beginning to improve as he grew older. It was his manner—a sadistic evil in the boy’s eyes. There was something not quite right about him, and it frightened her.

  “He’s a child,” she replied. “I don’t go to bed with children.”

  “He’s trying to be a man!” the senator snapped. “He needs to learn about women.”

  “He’s already learned!” she answered with a sneer. She sat up and pulled her robe closed. “This is my business, Winston, and I’ll run it my way. I’m the madam of this house, and I’ll sleep with whomever I choose! I do not choose to sleep with your son!” She rose and walked to the window. The senator got up and lumbered over to stand behind her, pulling her robe from her shoulders.

  “Don’t push me, Anna. You might be important to me, and right now I have no wish to bring you harm. But my son is more important to me, and the fact remains that I could and should get rid of you for my own safety.”

  Her blood chilled. She had no fear of Winston Garvey. Theirs was a long and infamous relationship. But now someone more important had come into the picture, someone who could convince Winston Garvey he could get along without Anna Gale. Charles Garvey was a shrewd, demented, spoiled boy who always got what he wanted. Now he wanted her. She turned and looked up at the senator.

  “How much?” she asked.

  He grinned. “A thousand dollars?”

  She stared back. “Make it fifteen hundred,” she replied boldly. “Your son, so I’m told, has not quite ‘matured.’ It won’t be a lot of fun for me, if you know what I mean.”

  The senator chuckled. “Whatever you say. I just like to keep the boy happy.”

  She moved away from him, not wanting him to see the revulsion in her eyes for his son. She walked to a night table and picked up a long, very thin cigar. She lit it and puffed it for a moment. “Send him up tonight,” she told him quietly. “And as far as Silverthorn, I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thank you, Anna dear,” he replied, feeling powerful and important for having broken down her proud resistance. Anna Gale was still at his command, even if he didn’t technically “own” her any longer. She had long ago become rich enough to pay off her debts to him. But some debts were not tangible, and each owed the other in many ways. “I’d stay myself for another round with you, but I have a business engagement. Take care, my sweet.”

  He trudged out of the room, his breathing heavy from carrying so much weight. She heard the door close and she shuddered. In spite of all the men she had slept with, she chilled at the thought of Charles Garvey putting his hands on her. Her thoughts moved again to Zeke. How many times ov
er the years had she thought of him? And why, out of all the men she had known, did Zeke Monroe nag at her heart and her memories?

  Thunder rolled as a late autumn storm rumbled over Nashville. Danny headed for the biggest tent in the Confederate encampment in that city, where he knew from his own army experience the commanding officer would be stationed. The thunder and impending storm seemed a foreboding of the storm coming to the South, and he tried to shake off his dark worry, praying again that his wife and child were still safe in St. Louis, and that his father would still be alive when he returned to the farm. God only knew when he would see any of them again.

  He reached the tent, and a first sergeant eyed him warily, taking in Danny’s cotton pants and plaid shirt, suspicious of any man not in a uniform. These were times of deceit and mistrust.

  “Speak your piece.” the sergeant drawled.

  “I’m Daniel Monroe, from down near Shelbyville. I rode in with some of the other Tennessee Volunteers this morning,” Danny replied sternly, a man accustomed to giving orders rather than taking them. “I want to speak to General Johnston and offer my services. I was formerly a lieutenant in the United States Western Army and I also served in the Mexican War.”

  The sergeant ran his eyes over Danny again. Even after several years of service in the West, Danny carried a hint of his Tennessee accent, and he had a strong, wholesome country boy look to him. He was a handsome man, with a tall, commanding physique. His face was tanned from his years of duty in the western sun, and strands of his blond hair that dangled from beneath his floppy leather hat were bleached even whiter by that same sun. His intense blue eyes showed honesty, and the sergeant lowered his rifle. “I’ll tell the general you’re here.” The man disappeared inside the tent.

  Danny waited impatiently. He was tired and hungry. He forced himself to stop thinking about his distraught father and his own aching loneliness for Emily. Moments later the sergeant reappeared. “Go on in,” he mumbled.

  Danny removed his hat and entered, finding the large, gray-haired Gen. Sidney Johnston sitting at a makeshift table inside. At fifty-eight, Johnston was one of the oldest men to join in the battle between blue and gray, but he was a competent and well-liked leader. His hairline was receded but thick at the edges, and his mustache was equally thick. His blue eyes were firm but tolerant as Danny came to stand before him. The man looked Danny over, already liking what he saw.

  “The sergeant tells me you were a lieutenant in the Western Army,” the man spoke up with a satisfied smile.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve come to join the Confederates. I’m a Tennessee man. I think I can be of some use to you, General Johnston.”

  The general leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you can. You also served in the Mexican War? That was a long time ago. You don’t look that old.”

  Danny flashed a handsome grin. “I’m thirty-five, sir. But I was just a kid in the Mexican War. Went west to search for a half-breed brother of mine and ended up in the army. I saved an officer from a bullet down in Mexico and found myself promoted to first sergeant while I was still wet behind the ears—then before I knew it, lieutenant in command at Fort Laramie.” He ran a hand through his thick, blond hair. “Right now I know more about Indians than I do about this kind of war, sir. But I am accustomed to commanding men and keeping them in line.” He shook his head. “From what I’ve seen, you have a mess on your hands—a bunch of backwoods farmers ready to go to war with nothing more than shotguns and old muskets.”

  Johnston frowned and rose, putting out his hand. “Exactly right, Monroe.” They shook hands. “It is Monroe, isn’t it? That’s what the sergeant said.”

  “Yes, sir. Dan Monroe. Born and raised in Tennessee.”

  “Have a seat, Monroe,” Johnston told him, motioning to a crate nearby. “Sorry about the accommodations.”

  Danny shrugged. “I’ve lived away from civilization too long to worry about such things,” he answered.

  “Good. Because I have a feeling in this war there will be no comforts, Monroe. You look like a strong, well-trained man. And I’m glad you’ve noticed the problem we have. It’s compounded by the fact that President Davis can’t help me much with supplies. All the good stuff stays in the East. Out here in these border states we have to make do. It’s a mess, just like you said.”

  Danny sat down on the crate. “Give me a gray uniform and let me help clean up the mess, General. I lost a brother at Wilson’s Creek. He was a good man—a simple man. I promised our father I would exchange my blue uniform for gray and avenge my brother’s death. I have another brother serving with the Confederates. But I don’t know where he is right now. And a half-breed brother, too.”

  Johnston frowned, but his eyes bade Danny to continue.

  Danny leaned forward and turned his hat in his hands thoughtfully. “His name is Zeke. Before my pa married my ma, he lived with a Cheyenne woman out west. They had a son. My pa got homesick for Tennessee and came back. Brought Zeke with him.” He shook his head. “But life was rough for a half-breed. He was bad abused, and white men raped and murdered his first wife and killed their little son. The woman was white.” Danny sighed. “Zeke went a little crazy after that. Some of that Indian blood came to surface, I guess. He hunted down the men—one by one.” He looked at Johnston sheepishly. “Needless to say, he left Tennessee a wanted man. He headed west to search for his Cheyenne mother and his people. He’s been out there ever since. Through some connections of my own I managed to finally get him removed from Tennessee’s wanted list a couple of years ago. I see him now and then. He has a wife and seven children now. Still lives among the Cheyenne. He’s happy there.”

  “Married an Indian woman then?”

  Danny smiled softly. “No, sir. Married another white woman.”

  Johnston’s eyebrows arched. “And he lives among the Cheyenne?”

  “Mostly. They do have a cabin down on the Arkansas River. But it’s right smack in Cheyenne country. Abbie is quite a woman, a very lovely person, in looks and character. She’s one brave lady.”

  Johnston fingered his mustache. “This Zeke sounds like the kind of man we could use on the Confederate side,” he commented. “Is he as big as you?”

  Danny grinned. “Bigger! But Zeke would never take sides in this war. He has no ties with Tennessee—no desire to ever come back. His only concern is the Cheyenne—and his own family.”

  “Too bad.” Johnston studied Danny thoughtfully, liking the young man right off. “So, you went west to find this Zeke and ended up in the army. A lieutenant at Fort Laramie. Takes rugged men to last out there on the frontier. I admire your courage and strength, Monroe. I most certainly can use you.” He leaned forward across the table. “We’ve got to hold Bowling Green, Mr. Monroe. And Nashville. The Green River, the Tennessee and the Cumberland Rivers are our supply routes. We’ve got to keep them open. Nashville is important because of its industry. Here we get our uniforms from clothing factories, arms and equipment from other factories. Several railroads lead to Nashville. We must secure Tennessee and keep all of these routes open. The area on the Green River around Bowling Green, all the way down to Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee is vital. Vital! The Federals know this, and they’re already building forces under Generals Grant and Sherman. I intend to be ready for them! The Confederates can and will win this war, Mr. Monroe.” He rose again. “And fine young men like yourself will help us win it!”

  Danny rose and put out his hand again, shaking the general’s vigorously. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ll consider your former service and let you know in the morning what your command will be, Mr. Monroe.” Their eyes held in mutual love for the South and the Confederacy. Then Johnston let go of Danny’s hand. “Tell me, son. You served out west apparently for a long time. Do you miss it?”

  Danny sighed, his eyes softening with a special love. “Every man who goes out there misses it, sir. There’s something about it that kind of grabs at a man, keeps pulling him back toward the setti
ng sun. I expect I’ll go back out, once this war is over.”

  Johnston nodded. “You love it. I can tell.” He searched Danny’s eyes again, wanting to be certain of the man’s loyalty. “But you still love Tennessee more, don’t you?”

  Danny swallowed and nodded. “Tennessee will always be home, sir. It’s in my blood.”

  Johnston smiled softly. “Good. Welcome to the bloody war, Monroe. May God keep you safe.”

  Winter winds howled outside, but Zeke and Abbie sat by the hearth, warm and comfortable. Abbie sewed on a new pair of winter moccasins for her husband, made from the shaggiest part of a bull buffalo hide. The thick hair would be turned to the inside, creating a natural insulation that made for much warmer footwear than the conventional boot.

  The house was quiet, with only the sound of the crackling fire and the soft strumming of the mystic mandolin, an instrument Zeke Monroe played very seldom now, but one he played well. The music he made with the instrument was always a source of fascination and excitement for the children, and this night it had lulled them all to sleep as they lay in their beds listening to their father play and sometimes sing songs he had learned back in that mysterious place called Tennessee.

  Abbie held a particular love for the old and beautiful mandolin, for when first she met Zeke Monroe on a wagon train west, he had played the instrument for her, helping soothe her fears and loneliness with his music. When he played and sang, he presented a picture that was in stark contrast to the vicious and vengeful man Zeke Monroe could be. There was nothing Indian about him when he strummed the mandolin strings. His mellow voice and the Tennessee mountain songs he sang turned him into a purely Tennessee man, and Abbie treasured those moments, for she felt as though she could own and control that side of him. She loved everything that was Indian about him, yet that was a part of him she could never fully share, for no matter how well she understood the Cheyenne religion, customs and language, the fact remained that she was white. There was a side to him that belonged only to Zeke—the side that was called Lone Eagle, the side that had visions and drew power from the spirits of the earth and the elements. But when he played his mandolin and sang for her, he was a man she could share fully, and he gave her, willingly and lovingly, a little part of the world from which she had come so many years ago—a world she had given up for him.