Climb the Highest Mountain (18 page)

“Yes. But he does not like to leave my mother, especially now.” Wolf’s Blood picked up his rifle to clean it, and Swift Arrow studied the boy’s lean, hard body. The young man was exceedingly handsome, and the available Sioux and Cheyenne girls often whispered about this newcomer who was supposed to have white blood but who certainly did not look as though he did. Wolf’s Blood had already proven his prowess. He had taken two white men’s scalps, and he could ride, hunt, shoot, and raid as well as any of the Sioux and Cheyenne men. Yes, he could have his pick of any of the young maidens. But his heart still longed for Morning Bird, and Swift Arrow understood that longing.

“We will speak no more of my feelings for your mother,” Swift Arrow told him. “It is over. I have honored you by trusting you with feelings that are
sacred and private. Do not disappoint that trust by betraying that honor and speaking of it to someone else or bringing it up to your father.”

Wolf’s Blood held the man’s eyes. This was Swift Arrow, his beloved uncle, a respected Dog Soldier. He put out his hand and grasped the man’s wrist and Swift Arrow grasped his in return.

“I am only here to fight the white man and be Cheyenne!” the boy told him. “I am honored to share such sacred feelings over your fire. If you love my mother, it is only with the greatest respect. She is a woman who would be easy to love. We will speak of it no more.”

Swift Arrow nodded. “Tomorrow we hunt buffalo. Perhaps the next day we will join the braves who surround the soldiers at Fort Connor and share in the game of watching them die.”

Wolf’s Blood grinned and nodded. Then each man lay back to think his own thoughts for a moment, while drums beat outside.

“Do not forget what I told you about the loose women,” Swift Arrow said then. “I can tell you the best ones if you have not learned that part of being a man yet. They will teach you without laughing at you.”

Wolf’s Blood smiled. “I will think about it awhile.”

Young Margaret walked to Tynes’s stables to check on Sun and Dreamer, the only two remaining Monroe Appaloosas. These horses represented the future for her father, for both mares were pregnant, and she knew they must be well cared for. All the children took turns tending them, but Margaret spent more time with them than the others. Being near the mares made her feel closer to her father and to Wolf’s Blood. She missed them both, and was afraid for them.

She entered the stall where Sun stood and picked up a brush, walking to the front of the horse and talking softly to her. “You eat up, Sun, and don’t be kicking out stall doors and running away like you did last year.” She began brushing the animal gently. “You are carrying the beginnings of a new herd in your belly and you must take care of yourself.”

The horse whinnied and nodded as though she understood, and Margaret laughed lightly before she absently began to hum a hymn she had often heard her mother sing softly while at work. She was worried about her mother. Abbie had been so quiet and withdrawn after their father had left. She seemed somehow broken, and Margaret wondered if something had happened between her parents. She was upset because she did not like the way Sir Tynes watched her mother and doted on the woman. The girl sighed heavily as she brushed the horse, and her thoughts went to her little sister Lillian, who was very sick. She began to hum the hymn again, feeling that it would make her feel better. She hummed for several minutes until a startled gasp cut off her singing. A man bobbed up from the next stall. He had apparently been there all the time, on the other side of the wall where she couldn’t see him.

He was quite handsome, one of the new breed Sir Tynes had spoken of, a cowboy. Sandy hair was scattered every which way beneath the old, leather hat he wore, and his face was tanned, a reddish tan not a dark one. His eyes were a dancing blue, and his teeth were straight and white when he smiled at her.

“You have a pretty voice, matches your pretty face.”

She stared back at him with dark, suspicious eyes, ready to dart away. She had heard so many things about strange white men and what most of them thought of Indian girls that she wasn’t sure what to
think of this man staring at her now, even though his blue eyes were friendly. Several months earlier, when she’d been barely fifteen, a white Confederate soldier had been about to rudely show her what squaws were made for, and if it were not for Wolf’s Blood’s intervention, something terrible might have happened. She knew that, although she didn’t fully understand what would have happened to her at the hands of the pawing, cruel soldier.

“Now I know you speak, because I heard you singing,” the man told her, coming from his stall to stand at the gate of her own. “And I know you speak English, because you’re that white woman’s daughter, and because I heard you talking to your horse there.”

She backed up, clinging to the brush, watching him warily. He was tall and lanky, with slim hips and waist but broad shoulders. She guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. His eyes were still kind as he put a piece of straw in his mouth and leaned against a support beam near the stall, careful not to enter it and frighten her.

“Which one are you? You have so many brothers and sisters, I get mixed up. You Ellen?”

She swallowed. “Margaret,” she managed to choke out.

He grinned more, pushing back his wide-brimmed hat. He studied her exquisite form and provocative face, her full, innocent lips and wide brown eyes. She had the enticing beauty that only girls of mixed blood were privileged to have. He was struck by it. He wanted the dark beauty that was looking back at him now.

“Well, Margaret, my name is Sam. Sam Temple. I work around here—herd cattle, tend to horses and such. Sir Tynes pays well.” Margaret still did not offer any words other than her name, and he folded his arms. “Have you looked at Sir Tynes’s horses?” he asked.

She only nodded.

“He’s got some mighty fine quarter horses. They make the best kind for cutting out calves and such. Quick on the hoof, you know? And he’s got some of them fancy thoroughbreds from England. But I gotta say, these two Appaloosas your father brought in are beautiful animals. Beautiful animals. A man doesn’t see many Appaloosas in these parts, mostly quarter horses and roans. Your father must be real good with horses. ’Course most Indians have extra talent that way, with breeding and riding. You a good rider?”

She swallowed. “I’m pretty good.”

He smiled warmly. “I’ll bet you are. Will you go riding with me sometime?”

She shook her head. “I… don’t know you.”

“Sure you do. I just introduced myself. I’m Sam Temple and I’m from down Texas way. I’m twenty-five and I came to Colorado just to see something new. I think I’ll stay on here. Ought to be a longstanding job. Sir Tynes has a good idea. Soon as the railroads reach Denver from the East, we’ll be able to ship beef eastward real fast to provide fresh meat there, instead of herding them to places where they can get loaded onto trains. Without that long walk, the beef will be a lot fatter and they’ll bring in more money.”

She frowned. “Will a railroad come all the way to Denver?”

He laughed lightly. “Sure it will. The Kansas Pacific is almost to Fort Rilely now, and the government has given them permission to head on west. You just wait. In ten years there will be railroads all over the plains and all the way to California.”

She fingered the brush nervously. “My father and mother say the railroads are bad for the Indians. They scare away the buffalo, and they bring more white people.”

“Well, that’s probably true. But it can’t really be
stopped you know. I think they probably know that. How did we get on the wrong subject? I still want to know if you’ll go riding with me sometime.”

She put an arm around Sun’s neck and petted the horse. “Not right away. I would have to know you better, and you would have to talk to my mother.”

“All right. That’s fair. How about the next few days I just come to the house. We can sit on the veranda and have coffee on the better days. Sometimes in Colorado it can get right warm this time of year—then whammo! There comes another blizzard. On those days we can sit in the kitchen.”

“You don’t have to tell me about Colorado weather. I’ve lived here all my life. I suppose we could do that.”

He nodded. “I’d be honored. I can’t say when I’ll be able to come. I have a lot of work to do around here. Probably in the evening.” His eyes quickly scanned her voluptuous form. “How old are you, Margaret?”

“Sixteen.”

He nodded. Yes, this one was worth the effort. She was the prettiest thing he’d seen since coming to Colorado—and she was Indian. A man didn’t need to make commitments to pretty little squaws. He kept the friendly smile, aware of his own good looks and his easy way with girls.

“You got an Indian name, Margaret?”

She nodded. “It’s Moheya, Blue Sky.”

He winked. “Well, now, that’s right pretty. You go ahead there and tend to your horse, Blue Sky. I’ve got chores to do.” He started to walk away.

“Mister Temple,” she spoke up. He turned to look back at her. “When will you come?”

He grinned. “How about this evening?”

He was so handsome and seemed so sweet. He made her feel strangely warm and excited inside. “All right. I’ll tell my mother, and I’ll be waiting.”

He tipped his hat, wondering with an ache how long it would take to break down her resistance.

Abbie put a cool cloth to little Lillian’s fevered brow. The girl had gotten steadily worse since the trip to the Tynes estate. Abbie was worried. Lillian was not strong. She had been sick many times, but she’d never been this bad. Her chest was dangerously congested, and her fever would not go down.

Sir Tynes knocked softly and entered at Abbie’s bidding. Lillian slept in Abbie’s bed so that Abbie could be near the girl at all times. He came and stood near Abbie, who sat on the bed beside her daughter.

“Would you like me to send to Denver for a doctor?” he asked Abbie. “I can get you the best available.”

“I… can’t really afford—”

“Nonsense! I’ll pay his fee. It’s the little girl’s health that matters. Please let me send for someone.”

She nodded, her eyes tearing. She wondered how much more she could take. If only Zeke were here to hold her, share this terror. But he was experiencing his own terror, searching through Comanche country to find yet another daughter who had been stolen away. Abbie fought to keep from thinking about poor LeeAnn, for beside her lay Lillian, who might be dying for all she knew. To think of them both at the same time was overwhelming, yet she could not help doing so at times. Being unable to do anything for LeeAnn filled her with an apprehensive black feeling. She remembered watching the poor girl being dragged off by the renegades, remembered her terrified screams.

Abbie suddenly burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. In addition to her worries about Lillian and LeeAnn, she knew that Zeke could be killed. And if he was not, what would happen when he returned? He
seemed changed, almost determined that they could never again go back to the ranch and live happily. She felt her whole life slipping away; everything she had struggled to build, everything she loved was being swept away from her.

Tynes put a gentle hand on her head. “Poor Abigail. I wish I could do more for you.” How he loved her! But he had been purely cordial to her, strictly a good host and nothing more. She was suffering so that he could not truly woo her or explain his feelings. He had no right to do so, yet he longed to keep her there, longed to promise her peace and comfort for her remaining years. And she looked so much like his own Drucinda, the lovely young wife who had been taken from him after only one year of marriage. For fifteen years after that loss he had wandered the world, seeking one adventure after another, trying to forget.

“You’ve … done too much … already,” Abbie sobbed, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and wiping at her eyes. He studied the plain blue cotton dress she wore and pictured her in some of Drucinda’s magnificant gowns. Drucinda would have been about Abbie’s age if she had lived. “We’ll never be able to repay you,” she was saying. “And I’m afraid I’ll be terribly spoiled by the time we leave here.” She sighed deeply and forced a smile. “You must let me do some of the cooking and such.” She blew her nose.

“Nonsense! I have a cook and I have people to clean. You are not here as a servant. You are here as a guest. And God knows you have many things on your mind, enough burdens to shoulder without worrying about such trivialities as cooking. I shall send for a doctor right away.”

She looked up at him, her feelings for the man mixed. She knew he dared to be interested in her, even though she was married. She could see it in his eyes,
hear it in his voice. Yet he had been so kind and helpful, she didn’t have the heart to be rude or to chide him about it. He hadn’t done anything or said anything that he shouldn’t. Under normal circumstances she would have put him in his place, for she was not a woman to have eyes for any man but her husband. With a husband like Zeke Monroe she had no cause to look elsewhere. But now she felt that the one man she did love, her one source of strength and courage, might be taken from her. She rose and walked to a window, looking out at a gray day. A few snowflakes struck the window.

“That’s very kind of you, Sir Tynes.”

“Please call me Edwin. You allow me to call you Abigail, but you won’t call me by my first name.”

She nodded. “All right.” She watched the snow-flakes, longing to gather her children and ride into the horizon, for beyond it lay the Monroe ranch and her warm little cabin where she had known so much happiness and hardship. She wondered if she would ever go back there again.

Chapter Eleven

Zeke hunkered down under a heavy buffalo robe, his back against a large boulder, the front of him soaking up the heat of a campfire at his feet. He closed his eyes to the splashing sound of the nearby Red River as moonlight danced on the crest of each rivulet. It was a quiet place, a lonely place. But then, most of Texas was lonely. He stuck his nose under the robe to warm his face. This part of Texas was reasonably mild in winter, usually in the fifties. But the nights were cold, falling into the teens. He wondered how many more cold and lonely nights he would spend away from the warm cabin on his ranch, away from his family, away from Abbie.

Perhaps he would never know those things again, for he felt certain that he must give Abbie a chance to live the kind of life she could have if she were not married to Zeke Monroe. She had given him twenty good years, twenty loyal, hard-working, dedicated, sacrificial years. He would not blame her if she wanted to give it all up now. Life seemed to continually plague her with heartache. Her own abduction nearly two years ago had been bad enough. Now her daughter had been abducted, and he wasn’t sure how he would tell her if he
found LeeAnn dead, or raped and enslaved. The thought of men cruelly using his innocent daughter set his mind to reeling with thoughts of the worst kind of revenge; then he again felt responsible for bringing his wife heartache. He loved Abbie so much. He hoped he loved her enough to get out of her life when this was over.

He was not sure in which direction to head next. This was certainly Comanche country, but most of the Comanches were in southern Kansas, preparing to abide by the latest treaty. He had checked at Fort Elliott and Fort Sill on the eastern edge of Comanche territory, after first going almost directly south from Colorado to Fort Union in New Mexico, then on down to Fort Summer, more Apache country than Comanche. He had thought the renegade Comanches might be running with the Apaches, but the men at the forts had had no indication that this was so. When he had headed east across the vast Texas plains to Forts Elliott and Sill, he had gleaned no useful information. The men had kindly said they would keep their eyes and ears open for rumors of a white captive among the renegade Comanches, but Zeke knew they would not go out of their way to help her, for LeeAnn was also part Indian.

The trip over the Texas plains had been devastatingly lonely. This was big country, endless country. Now, as he camped on the Red River, he felt somewhat less lonely, just because the nearby river made noise. The splashing sounds made him feel that he had company. The roan mare beside him bent its head and nudged him lightly, and he patted the horse’s nose.

“You feel lonely and out of place too girl?” He sighed, his heart heavy. This was the horse Lance had been riding the morning of the raid. He wanted to cry for his brother, to let blood, but he was unable to vent his grief. He was too full of something else. Vengeance.
He must find his daughter! He would not give up until that feat was accomplished. He would not return home without LeeAnn or without at least knowing if she was dead or alive. If it took him a year, so be it. But he could not forget the horror of feeling her ripped from his arms that day, nor the sound of her screams. Zeke Monroe did not like being helpless or defeated. If he had not had to cling to her that morning, perhaps he could have beaten his adversaries, but with only one arm free, it had been hopeless. Still, he was grateful that because of his brave fighting the Comanches had let him live. He would prove that gesture to be a mistake. His biggest worry now was that the Indians might have already sold his daughter to white slavers. It had already been nearly a month since the girl’s abduction, and his heart was breaking because of his desperate fear of what could have happened to her. She would be a prize in any villainous man’s eyes. Her body was developed beyond her thirteen and a half years, her skin was fair and flawless, her white blond hair was long and thick, and her eyes were wide and blue. He had always known he would have to keep an eye on the young men who wooed her, but he hadn’t planned on something like this. If he found the girl dead or violated, it would kill Abbie, and it would destroy his own pride and will to live.

He tried to force himself to sleep. It was difficult, for there was so much on his mind. And worse, he had a haunting feeling, the kind that had tormented him when he’d been back East and felt something was wrong with Abbie. When he’d returned, he’d discovered that she’d been kidnapped by Garvey’s men. Now he had that feeling again. Something was wrong at home, something other than LeeAnn’s capture and his own departure and the words he had had with Abbie. What had gone wrong? He could not go home
to find out, for he must stay in this desolate country and search for his daughter.

He shook away these thoughts, but he knew he would get no sleep this night. His face had aged from lack of sleep, from being exposed to the elements twenty-four hours a day, and from the terrible stress of his ordeal. Again he closed his eyes. He would think of Abbie, his precious Abbie girl, and that last moment he had spent with her, that moment of soft lovemaking and delicious kisses, the wonderful satisfaction of being one with his Abbie. He thought of how she’d looked when he’d left her lying there asleep, in his eyes still pretty and young looking. Perhaps he would never see her that way again, lying naked in his bed, sleeping off the satisfaction of having been one with him.

A cold wind penetrated the heavy fur coat that Sir Tynes had insisted Abbie wear, and whispers of snow brushed across her feet as she stood beside the lonely grave. The horrible hurt in her heart was worsened by the fact that her daughter could not even be buried on the Monroe ranch. It was obvious a winter storm was coming so Sir Tynes had insisted they stay put. She knew he was right, but still…

Lillian! Again the horrible blackness swept over her, and she knew the chill she felt came more from the inside than the outside. It mattered little how many children a woman had. In losing one’s only child or one of many, the hurt was the same. Her little girl had struggled to hang on, had taken the medicine the Denver doctor had brought; but his long trip had been for naught. Sir Tynes had wasted his money paying for the man’s long trip. Little Lillian was not designed for this land—this cruel, harsh land. And on January 2, 1866, Lillian Rose Monroe, little Meane-ese, Summer
Moon, had died, at the age of eight and a half.

The girl’s life had been so quiet and uneventful she might never have existed. She was not a girl to speak loudly, she was never naughty. Her coloring was plain, her countenance thin and frail. Abbie had always felt she could never give the girl enough attention, maybe because she was so often sick and maybe because the rest of the family seemed to go about their business without really noticing Lillian. As the sixth child, Lillian had received little acclaim, being overshadowed by her oldest brother’s strong personality, by her sister Margaret’s unusual beauty, and by the interest LeeAnn’s blond hair and blue eyes attracted. Even her brother Jeremy, the second son, got more attention—boys usually did. She did not have Ellen’s good looks or intelligence. Ellen was very smart and often read to the other children. Even the third son, Jason, not only a boy but the baby of the family, received special attention.

Now, all the Monroe children stood around the grave crying. A messenger had been sent north to tell Dan what had happened, in the hope that he could find Wolf’s Blood somehow and let the boy know. Wolf’s Blood … If he would come home, Abbie was sure she would feel a little better. The boy seemed more like Zeke all the time. If he were here … No. It was Zeke she needed. Zeke. How would she tell him about this? What if he returned to tell her that yet another daughter was dead? How would they bear the loss?

Sir Tynes stepped close to her. He had spoken Christian words over the little girl who lay in the plain wooden box. It was over now. She would not come back to life, and a piece of Abigail Monroe’s heart had also died. Tynes put an arm around her shoulders.

“You should come inside now, Abigail.”

She shook her head, beginning to tremble. “I…
can’t leave her here … in the cold. She always hated the cold.”

“She’s fine now, Abigail. She’s free of pain and sickness. She’s free of this cruel land. She was not made to be long here on earth.”

Abbie nervously twisted the necklace she held in her hand. “My mother … was always sickly,” she told him. “She died—back in Tennessee … before we left for Oregon.” She held out her hand. “This was her necklace. I’d like to… lay it beside Lillian. My children never knew their grandmother. She died before I met Zeke …” The horrible blackness engulfed her again and she bent over in a wrenching sob, grasping her stomach. Tynes grasped her arms and pulled her close, holding her tightly.

“It will fade a little … the worst grief,” he told her. “When I lost my first wife I thought I would never again see the sun. She was so young … and I had only had her for a year. Come. I will help you to the casket and you can lay the necklace there and say good-bye one last time. Then we must leave and get you and the other children inside. The snow is coming down harder now. My men will take care of things here.”

He helped her to the grave. She felt old, suddenly old. Her arm seemed to weigh a hundred pounds when she reached out to place the necklace on her daughter’s frail body. Never had Lillian looked prettier. Some of Sir Tynes’s help had dressed her in the pink dress he’d instructed them to make from material he’d had at the house. Her hair was neatly braided, with pink ribbons tied at the ends, and a light rouge had been put on her pale cheeks.

Margaret stood nearby, weeping bitterly, held by Sam Temple. She had grown to love Sam, grown to trust him. They had gone riding several times, had talked for hours; and he had kissed her. His sweet,
warm, gentle kisses had stirred new and exciting feelings in her innocent body. He never touched her rudely or said crude things as the cruel Confederate soldier had done that awful day when he’d tried to force himself on her. Sam was different, and her young heart was truly in love for the first time. She had sometimes thought about Indian men, but she had wondered what future there would be in marrying one. With her looks she felt she belonged with the Indians, but she had been raised as a white girl and she knew that to have a home and children, she should marry a white man. However, she also knew that most white men had no respect for Indian girls. Then Sam Temple had come along. He was different. He respected her. He had not said that he loved her, but she was sure he would. Sam was her hope for a happy future.

But right now she was temporarily saddened by her sister’s death. She watched her mother put the necklace into the casket and she wept harder, turning and burying her face against Sam’s chest. She wondered if this terrible grief would be made worse when they found out what happened to LeeAnn. And what of her father? What would happen to Zeke Monroe? Would they ever live happily at the ranch again?

The snow came down harder, and now Sir Tynes was dragging Abbie away, against her protests. “I can’t leave her there alone! It’s too cold!” Abbie kept saying. “Oh, God, where’s Zeke? If only Zeke were here! Zeke and my son!”

The words echoed in Margaret’s ears and she wept harder, standing there in the blowing snow with Sam’s arms around her while the rest of the weeping Monroe children filed after their mother toward the Tynes mansion. Sam kissed Margaret’s hair.

“Come on, honey,” he told her softly. “Let’s go to my cabin. You’re better off not being around your ma right
now. Come to my cabin and I’ll warm you up and we’ll talk.” He led her in the opposite direction as men began to lower the small wooden coffin into the ground.

Margaret sipped the hot chocolate, the heat of it burning her throat, warming her stomach, and helping her heavy heart. She set the cup on the crude wooden table in Sam’s cabin. He walked up behind her and patted her hair. “Feeling better?”

She sighed deeply and wiped her eyes. “A little.” She turned to look up at him and he touched her cheek. “I must look terrible,” she told him.

He knealt down beside her and leaned up to kiss her cheek. “Now how could a beauty like you look terrible? You’re beautiful, like always.” He handed her a big, clean handkerchief and she blew her nose.

“Oh, Sam, I’m so scared.” She began shaking and new tears wanted to come. “Father might never come back, and we don’t know what’s happened to my poor sister. My brother is in the north, maybe dead from some raid, and—” She met his eyes. “Hold me, Sam.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and he enfolded her in his own, pulling her out of the chair and hugging her tight. He kissed her hair. If ever she was vulnerable enough for him to take her, it was now. He had gained her trust. Every girl had to take her first man sooner or later, and this one was Indian, so it didn’t matter if they weren’t married. Sam Temple was not about to commit himself to any girl. He liked many girls, and he did not intend to lose his freedom. But now he was with Margaret—beautiful, young, unsuspecting Margaret who was frightened and lonely. He moved his lips from her hair to her cheek, then to her full, sensuous lips, kissing her in a seductive, almost demanding way. He had never kissed her like that
before. He parted her lips hungrily, then moved a hand down to press against her slender hips when he felt her responding out of her confusion and fear.

Leaving her lips, he kissed his way to her throat, then her ear. “Let me help you forget all your sorrow, Margaret. Let me make you feel alive and happy.” He rubbed his hand over her hips and kissed her again before she could reply, pressing his hardness against her flat stomach. He felt her stiffen then, and her heart beat so hard he could feel it against his chest. “Don’t be afraid, Margaret. Don’t I mean anything to you? Don’t you love me?”

He released her slightly then, and she met his eyes—so true and kind. “You know I love you, Sam. But I’ve never … I mean … we aren’t married.”

He smiled. “We can always get married. I just don’t want to wait. It would take time to get a preacher. I want you now, right now. I need you, Margaret. You’ve seen how easy it is for life to slip away in this land. I could get killed on a roundup tomorrow, be attacked by renegades, who knows? You know better than anybody all the things that can happen out here. I’m scared too, Margaret, scared something will happen to you or me and we’ll never have known each other that way. I want to be your first man, Margaret, your only man. I won’t hurt you, I promise. Every day I wonder if this is the last day we have together.”