Meet the New Dawn

by Rosanne Bittner

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, sipping her own drink.

  He turned to face her. “I must say, dear wife, that for all your uselessness in bed, you are equally intelligent in other matters. That’s the only reason I keep you. I’ll not have a bumpkin for a wife, nor an ugly one. It is those two assets, and those only, that keep you in this house with my honored name.”

  She doubted the honor of the name but said nothing. “What does that have to do with West Enterprises?” she asked.

  “I only mean, my love, that I think you’re intelligent enough to understand that no man gets rich out of strictly legitimate means. I make more money illegitimately than I do above-board. West Enterprises was one of my sources. But now the Army has arrested Thomas West, my best man.”

  LeeAnn sighed. “You’re confusing me.”

  He grinned. “It’s called ‘screw the Indians,’ my sweet. You’ve heard me talk about that game before.”

  She lowered her glass, feeling the panic in her heart again. What if he found out about her past? He would surely kill her! And every time he talked about his hatred of the Indians her heart broke a little more, her soul filled with more guilt about turning her back on her own heritage.

  “Thomas West ran West Enterprises,” he continued. “On paper he owned the place. West Enterprises supplies worthless, rotgut whiskey to Indian reservations, as well as guns—outdated, half-worthless guns. The goods, which the Indians want very badly, are hauled to reservations, snuck in by various means, and traded for valuable buffalo robes and government supplies issued on the reservation—blankets, pots and pans, farm tools, furniture, all kinds of things. The stupid, ignorant Indians trade those things for the whiskey and guns, like the fools they are, not even realizing what they’re giving away in return for a night of feeling good and hope of arming themselves well enough to fight the Army again.”

  She looked at her glass, feeling compassion for the Indian. “And the robes and Army supplies are sent back to West Enterprises, the robes sold for a great profit,” she added for him.

  He nodded, then bowed. “As I said, for a woman you are blessed with unusual intelligence.”

  “But what happens to the government supplies?”

  He smiled. “Simple. They are resold to the Army. In the books, they are newly ordered supplies, but they’re really just the same supplies used over again, with a few new things mixed in. West Enterprises spares themselves the cost of ordering new goods, making a profit on the same supplies over and over.” His eyes darkened again, the strange evil returning to them. “West Enterprises was the biggest supplier of all. Somehow the Army found out. They’ve closed the place down, and confiscated all robes and supplies. It will take a long time to get an operation like that underway again. Everything was going so smoothly. Damn!”

  She swallowed back tears over the kind of man she had married. How could she have let her own memories of her captivity with the Comanches bring her to this? Had she hated the Indians that much herself then? If only her own father were not one. “How do you think they found out?” she asked quietly.

  “Oh, wouldn’t I love to know!” he growled.

  “What does Tom West have to say? Maybe he knows something.”

  Her husband’s eyes narrowed. “He knows too much. He will be conveniently killed, at my request. I’ll not risk anything dragging me into this.”

  Her eyes widened. “But … he worked for you. You said he was your best man. You’d … you’d have him killed?”

  His eyes ran over her scornfully. “Of course. Some damned Indians killed his source in Dodge City, and our contact at Camp Supply took off for parts unknown to avoid arrest. That leaves only Tom West knowing who really backs this thing. The man has to die. I’ll wait a while, then start the operation up all over again, find a new man, make new contacts. It’s a lucrative business. It’s just another way for me to take advantage of the Indians, and that pleases me greatly.” He took another swallow of bourbon. “You know, I kind of hate to see the red man die off, much as that’s what I want. I’ll have to think of some other way to make my money—find some other poor bastard who’s too stupid to know when he’s being taken advantage of.” He met her eyes, and saw the shock there. He only smiled. “My dear Mrs. Garvey, you must learn to be more callous. You’re too sentimental, you know—too soft. That’s your biggest flaw. You want gentleness in bed, when it’s much more fun to be brutal. And you expect me to help Tom West. I can see it in your eyes. Well, my dear, if he was stupid enough to get caught, he deserves to die. No one is going to get me in hot water and smear my good name.”

  She studied him sorrowfully. “Does that include me? Would you have me killed if I threatened your reputation—your good name?”

  He snickered. “Of course I would. Oh, I’d mourn you. After all, how many men find something as beautiful and elegant as you for a wife?” He came closer, kneeling down in front of where she sat and unbuttoning the front of her dress. He pulled it open, kissing the deep cleavage of her breasts, and she shuddered with disappointment. She had hoped he would not want her this night. And now he had told her she was dispensable. “Why don’t you go upstairs and undress like a good little wife?” he asked then, rising again.

  She got up from the chair, glaring at him with eyes as cold as his own. “Certainly,” she said coolly. “May I ask, Charles, if a child would make you happier—make you love me just a little more?”

  He grinned. “Of course. I’ll need a son to keep the Garvey enterprises going.”

  “Then you will have to stop your monstrous bedroom habits and make love to me the normal way,” she told him, almost defiantly. “There is only one way to get a woman pregnant, Charles. I want a baby. And I want to be treated like a normal woman, not like the whores you lay with. Let them be acrobats in your bed. I want only to be a woman and to have a child.”

  His eyes narrowed again, and he walked up to her, planting a hand around her throat and squeezing until her face reddened. “I will do whatever I want with my own wife in our own bed!” he growled. He shoved her hard then, causing her to fall to the floor. Then he smiled again. “But I must agree with you this time, love. There is only one way to get pregnant. So get yourself upstairs and wait for me.” He clenched a fist. “Unless you have found some other man who makes love to you the way you think a man is supposed to?”

  Her eyes widened. “Of course not! How can you say such a thing?”

  He looked her over as she got to her feet. “Just checking. Maybe you want a man who doesn’t limp—or one more handsome.”

  She blinked back tears. “Don’t you understand such things don’t matter to me? I only want a little gentleness—to be loved and treated like a normal woman. I loved you, Charles. Why do you seem to try so hard to make me not love you? Why is it so hard for you to accept love, and to give love?”

  His eyes glittered. “It does no good to love, my dear LeeAnn. When I was a small boy, I learned about love—and about looking out for yourself. I loved my mother. She was blond and pretty—like you. When I went west with her and the Indians attacked our stagecoach, I wanted to protect her. But I couldn’t because I was too little. I’ll never forget that, and I’ve hated the Indians ever since for murdering her—scalping her right in front of me.” He slugged some more bourbon. “Yes, I learned that day that it hurts too much to love—not just because I watched my pretty mother die, but because I knew she was going west because my father sent her there for cheating on him.” He grinned sarcastically. “I learned many things that day, LeeAnn, things I remembered the rest of my life. I had already learned about cheating wives, but I could forgive her for that. I learned about filthy Indians and how cruel they could be. And I learned that no one, not even a child, can depend on love. You see my … uh … ‘beloved’ mother offered me to the Indians, in exchange for her life.”

  Her eyes softened and she started toward him. “Charles—”

  “Forget it, my sweet!” he answered. He dran
k some more. “You know, I think that’s why the Indians killed her—because they held such contempt for her for trying to trade her own son for her life. And maybe that’s why they left me there instead of taking me along. I suppose in a way I should thank them for that, but at the time I could only see them as rotten, killing savages. They still are—except now I don’t work against them so much because I hate them, but more because they stand in the way of progress, my dear. The land they roam is packed with wealth, and I want that wealth. Every Indian can die for all I care! What good are they?” He set down the bottle. “And don’t give me any speeches about love. Just don’t you mess around on me like my mother did to my father, understand? If you do, you’re dead. Now get upstairs.”

  “Charles, let me help you. Let me love you.”

  “Go!” he roared, stepping closer with his fists clenched. She backed up, then turned and fled the room. He picked up the bourbon bottle and smashed it against a wall, following after her then, unbuttoning his shirt on the way. No woman was going to tell him how to behave in bed. His father had taken him to see the whores when he was hardly more than a boy. He knew what women were for, and his own wife was no different.

  Abbie lowered the lamp and climbed into bed, wearing only a cotton under slip, for the August night was warm. Zeke watched her quietly. He had been home three weeks now—long enough as far as he was concerned. Abbie gave him a quick kiss and curled up on the cool sheet, her back to him. The house was quiet, Ellen and Jason sleeping outside rather than in the loft because of the heat.

  Zeke studied his wife’s form, still shapely in spite of all the children, kept firm by hard work. He reached over and ran a hand along her leg and up her thigh, pushing up the slip and exposing bare hips.

  “Zeke Monroe you aren’t healed enough,” she said quietly, her back still to him.

  He leaned down and kissed her hip, pushing the slip up more and moving his lips along her back. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he told her, moving his hand around to her belly and up over her full breasts, while his lips nuzzled her neck. He pressed his hand against her shoulder, turning her onto her back and meeting her lips. He moved one knee between her legs, pushing against private places while his lips moved to her throat.

  “Zeke, you shouldn’t do this,” she protested weakly.

  “Of course I should. It’s a sure cure. I think the only thing left wrong with me is I haven’t had a woman since February. That’s a hell of a long time for a man like me, and I’ve got some love all built up inside of me just dying to be released.”

  He met her lips again. How could she protest, when she was as hungry for him as he was for her? She returned the kiss with a whimper, reaching her arms around his neck. Her slip was pushed all the way to her neck. The rest was easy, for when it was this hot her husband slept naked. He moved on top of her, shivering at the pleasant feel of her bare breasts against his skin.

  Neither of them cared about preliminaries. Nor did they need them. Their passion was instant and powerful, and in moments she welcomed him inside herself, crying out in glorious ecstasy. He moved his hands under her hips, and she was lost in him, her face buried against the broad, strong chest, her body pushed against him by his own strength so that he filled her completely. He pushed in groaning need, not caring that it brought mild pain to his side. The pain was worth it. He was stronger again, making an amazing recovery considering his age. But Zeke Monroe had always had a tremendous capacity for overcoming wounds. It was the disease from within that he could not seem to control. But he would not think about that now. It was summer. The arthritis bothered him little this time of year. He would worry about winter when it was upon them and not before. For now he would enjoy the fact that he was recovering from the gunshot wound, and he was home and with his woman.

  His life surged into her, and they lay there breathing heavily, their skin hot with perspiration. But they didn’t care about the heat, and he didn’t care about his pain. He raised up on his elbows, remaining on top of her, bending down and kissing her hungrily again, searching her mouth with his tongue, enjoying her whimpers and grinning inwardly at how feebly she had argued against doing this. She arched her head back and he kissed her throat.

  “Zeke, are you all right?” she whispered.

  “What do you think?” he replied in a husky voice.

  She could feel his passion returning, and he began moving inside her again. “I think you must be just fine,” she whispered back.

  She could see him in the lamplight, and he grinned. “I told you this was the only thing left that I needed.” Their eyes held, flashing with passion as he moved rhythmically. She gazed at him with haughty, provocative, almost whorelike eyes as he moved inside of her, a look she had given to no other man, for no other man could bring out these things in Abigail Trent Monroe. He in turn took her as though she had no choice, and truly she didn’t, for when Zeke Monroe touched her, all resistance vanished, just as it had that first night he took her. He raised up to his knees, grasping her hips and pulling her toward him.

  “Ne-mehotatse,” he told her softly.

  She closed her eyes and reached over her head, grasping the brass bars of the headboard, arching up to him and crying out his name when he pushed extra hard and his life throbbed into her once again. In the next moment he came down and enveloped her in his arms, thinking how precious their time was now.

  “Abbie, my Abbie,” he groaned. “I wish I could hold you forever. Sometimes I wish all life outside of this bed would stop and there would be just you and me and love and this bed, and nothing more.”

  She swallowed, a lump in her throat making it impossible to reply right away. She could only cling to him, and her chest jerked in a sob. “Zeke,” she finally managed to whimper.

  “Don’t cry, Abbie-girl. I’ll always be with you this way—always—even after death. And then some day you’ll follow me on Ekutsihimmiyo, and we will be together—always and always.”

  In November of 1873 a daughter was born to Wolf’s Blood and Sonora. She was named Iris, for the flower that Abbie loved so much. The ensuing winter was kind to Zeke Monroe. The arthritis flared only mildly, and he wanted to believe that perhaps it was going away. A little voice told him not to be so foolish as to imagine that could happen, but he felt so good that he allowed himself to think the disease would no longer plague him. His side healed, leaving an ugly scar and often flaring with recurring pain that he knew would probably torment him forever. He sometimes wondered how much injury and pain one man could suffer and still survive, and thought perhaps he had more scars and had taken more batttering than any man alive. It was many weeks before Wolf’s Blood’s back finally stopped bothering him, and even longer before he stopped suffering from recurrent headaches and dizzy spells.

  By the spring of 1874 both men were strong again, and the summer was spent mending fences, finishing off the barn, helping in the birth of several new colts, and in branding. Zeke’s spirits were high, dashed only late that summer when Sergeant Daniels came calling on Ellen, and brought news telling them that all of Zeke’s and Wolf’s Blood’s efforts at helping route out whiskey peddlers had had little effect. Whiskey trading was rampant again on the reservations, according to Daniels, who had served some time at Camp Supply and had been writing letters to Ellen all that winter and past spring.

  “It’s bad, Zeke,” he told the man, as he sat outside on the porch rail, the entire family gathered around, enjoying the cool night air. “The Indians are getting so much whiskey now they’re almost crazy. They’re trading everything they can get their hands on for the stuff. The warriors trade needed rations for the whiskey and guns, and then the whiskey keeps them so drunk they don’t go out and hunt. The result is their families starve. Women are ashamed of their men, who no longer provide for them in the old ways. The young men are restless, drunk half the time, wanting to go to war again. Whiskey traders dress up like Indians and paint themselves so they can move in and out of the reservation undetect
ed. More and more stray Indians show up, and there’s no food for them. I needn’t tell you what that will lead to.”

  Zeke sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “They’ll break loose again. There’s no way to stop it.”

  “They are not happy there,” Wolf’s Blood stewed. “It is no wonder they are drunk all the time. They cannot be men on the reservation. Some are even killing themselves.” He stood up, clenching his fists. “The white man has done this to them! Treaty after treaty is broken! They give them land, then take it away again, shoving them someplace new, always to worse places—hot, useless, barren land full of insects and disease! And then they wonder why the Indian is unhappy and drinks himself to death! Don’t they understand what it was once like for the Indian? Don’t they realize he once rode free—from Canada to Mexico, from the Sierras to the Mississippi River? All of this was theirs! All of it! Now what do they have? Nothing! Nothing but a barren wasteland to which they are confined like prison!”

  “Calm down, Wolf’s Blood,” Margaret told her brother.

  Sonora blinked back tears, holding her baby close as it breast-fed. Kicking Boy, now two years old, toddled around at the foot of the steps. She wondered what was happening to her own people. It had been a long time since she had seen the beloved White Mountains, bathed in the Gila River, lived in the land of giant cactuses and red rocks. She missed home, but would not tell her husband so.

  “Something else that keeps things stirred up are horse thieves,” Daniels told them, often glancing at Ellen, anxious to be alone with her. She watched him lovingly, and he liked feeling important, sitting there in his blue uniform and bringing them news. More than that, though, he liked the Monroes, and was as concerned for the Indians as they were. He knew how they loved the people, and realized the dangers that were mounting with unrest on the reservation. “White men raid the reservation and steal Indian ponies. The Indians are furious about it—claim that if it was the other way around they’d be tried and hung, but when white men do it to them, nothing is done about it.”