Agnes and the Renegade (Men of Defiance) (28 page)

“And Jace? What is his tribe?”

Logan shook his head. “He’s white. But he lives by his own rules. He has a highly refined sense of justice—he’s one man you do not want to cross.”

“He is a warrior.”

“He is.”

“I like your friends. And your brother. Despite the fact that he is Shoshone.”

“They’re good men.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in his own thoughts. “Logan, why did Agkhee leave?”

Logan made a face as he gazed at his feet. “I don’t know. When we find her, you can ask her.”

“Does she not want to be married to a
Lakȟóta
?”

Logan looked at him. Chayton calmed his features, hoping his friend didn’t see the pain he felt. “The impression I got from the way she painted you is that she worshiped you. You can’t fake that, not when she painted her love into her art. Maybe it’s all a matter of miscommunication. She’s an artist, an Other—they don’t always live in this realm. Maybe she thought she told us when she was going down to the exhibit and we didn’t listen. I don’t know. Don’t jump to conclusions until you have a chance to ask her.”

Chayton couldn’t stand the quiet in his room after Logan was gone. He left it to its unnatural silence and went to explore Julian’s home. Though he’d been in buildings before, including the wide variety of structures that formed Logan’s extensive ranch, and some of the stores in Defiance, he’d never seen a single dwelling the size of Julian’s home. Many of the rooms on his floor had opened doors. He went through them all, exploring them in the eerie light of the moon. One door yielded nothing but a set of stairs. As big as the house was, he hadn’t yet found the children, so he went up the stairs. More rooms in another maze of corridors.

Chayton wondered at the sickness in the white man’s brain that he felt the need to surround himself with panels and doors of dead wood instead of simply living in a forest. Why was owning a hollow, empty structure worth invading Chayton’s country? His people had died so that men like Julian could have these walls.

The door to one room was open. Rows of desks were arranged in rigid order facing the far side of the room, where a larger desk sat. Chayton lit a lamp and carried it to one of the desks. He lifted the top of the desk and retrieved a stack of books it held. He set the lamp down, then squeezed himself sideways into the tiny piece of furniture. The printed papers were full of words and images of happy white children.

His mother had wanted him to learn to read, but it was a skill she had left untouched far too long to teach him herself. And by the time he encountered Logan, he was far more interested in protecting his herd and courting Laughs-Like-Water to bother with learning to read.

“
Até
,” a quiet voice broke into his thoughts, “what are you doing here?” White Bird slipped into the room and wiggled onto his lap.

“I was looking for you.”

“I’m in the next door down, with the girls.”

“With the girls? The boys don’t sleep with you?”

“No. Their room is the other way.” Her eyes lit up with mischief and humor. She drew breath to tell him some story, then apparently thought better of it. Among their people, though she’d been gone from them for half her life, the boys’ activities and training were conducted entirely separately from the girls’. Chayton was glad such a practice was also respected here.

White Bird gripped a fistful of his hair and drew her hand down its long, sleek length, the gesture soothing to both of them. “Could you not sleep?” she asked him.

“No.”

“You worry about Aggie?”

“Yes.” He looked across their laps to the opened books. “White Bird, can you read this?”

“Of course. This is for babies. I read chapter books now.”

Chayton felt ice in his heart at her confidence. Logan was right. He didn’t even know what a white baby knew. Perhaps they were born reading and that was why they’d taken over his world. “Will you teach me, daughter?”

White Bird looked up at him, silence and wonder in her eyes. She laid her palm to his cheek. “I will. I will, my
até
. And you will teach other of our people. And we will make your grandmother proud.”

“I do not care about my grandmother.”

Her little face clenched in a disapproving expression as fierce as one Laughs-Like-Water would have given him when he said something stupid. How his heart ached. He couldn’t save his people, couldn’t do a thing to stop what had begun, but he had saved this one little spirit, the biggest part of his soul.
 

“
Até
, there are many ways of helping our people,” she said in a voice older than her years. “I have spoken to Logan-
p'apá
about this. And I think I understand. He says the best way is from within the machine of our enemy. He means—”

“I know what he means. It is true there are many ways of helping our people, however, that is not the best way—it is but one way. The best way is to remain
Lakȟóta
as you move into the skin of our enemies. Tell the stories of our people, remember our history, adhere to our values, and use the language of our fathers.” He shook his head. “I cannot live in my grandmother’s skin and keep joy in my heart.”

“I can, because I know why I do. I will do this for us.”

“How will this help our people?”

“Grandmother has very much money. Money can buy countries. The chief in Washington paid money for our land. If I earn money, I can buy it back.”

“Money is but another kind of blood, daughter, one paid for in the souls of the living.”

“Money is blood, and power, and it is the only thing the invaders value. I will take what they value and give it to our people.” She climbed off his lap, then bent to kiss his cheek. “Good night,
Até
. When you are ready to begin your studies, I will be happy to help you.”

He watched her carefree stride carry her from the room. If anyone could conquer the white world, surely it would be his daughter. He worried how she would do as she said and keep her soul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Ester rose with the sun the next morning. After slipping into her robe, she summoned her maid. She threw open the heavy brocade curtains on her bedroom windows and paced across the pools of sunshine, feeling the press of time.

“Good morning, Mrs. Burkholder!” her maid greeted her cheerily after entering the room. She immediately went to the large canopied bed and began setting it to rights as she chattered at her mistress about her breakfast order.
 

“Never mind that now. I need you to send Harry to me. Right away. After my visit with him, I’ll have tea and toast. Be quick about it, girl!”

Ester continued pacing as she waited for her servant. He’d proven himself to be indispensable over the years and had become as much an advisor as a secretary and guard. He was indefatigable in any activity she assigned him. His only shortcoming was his rigid moral imperative. There were times when she’d rather he didn’t question her but simply accomplished the mission she set for him without debate.
 

This was such an occasion.

A short knock sounded at her door. “Enter!”
 

“Morning. What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“I’m afraid, Harry, that we haven’t sent the girl far enough away. I need you to find her before my grandson does. We must send her abroad. Or to the East Coast. Or perhaps South America. Somewhere, anywhere, where Charles will not find her.”
 

Harry grinned. He folded his arms and watched her, his head tilted in that way he did when he was about to argue with her.
 

“If you fail in this, I will fire you.”

“You’re not going to fire me, or you’d have done it a long time ago. Someone has to be your conscience. Did it ever occur to you your grandson loves this woman? And she loves him. Would it be so bad to have an artist in the family?”

“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to do.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find her.”

“I don’t want her harmed. I just want her to disappear. I am willing to pay handsomely for that to happen.”

“And if she doesn’t want to go?”

“Make her want it, Harry.”

“Okay. I’ll take care of it.” He grabbed the door, but looked back at his employer and shook his head. Ester returned his dark look, lifting her chin—and a brow—as she did so. She didn’t need a scolding from a man younger than her grandson. It was for Charles’ own good that she did this. It would be hard enough for him to enter society as it was. He didn’t need to start his new life burdened with a bad choice from his old life.

A little voice she’d rather not listen to whispered from the back of her mind that she’d married the man she loved. It was that love that had carried them through the tragedies they’d seen. But theirs had been an entirely different situation, she argued with herself. She’d had the great fortuity to not only marry a man she cared about—indeed loved—she’d found in him a man who’d been able to carve for himself and their heirs, of whom only Charles and his daughter remained, an important role in the western expansion of the United States. Marriage was more than an affair of the heart; Charles was the inheritor of a vast fortune. He wasn’t starting with nothing, as she and her husband had. He needed a wife equal to his place in society, and in industry, that was already his.

* * *

Harry picked the lock on the heavy iron door and stepped into the enormous warehouse studio where he’d dropped the artist off several days earlier. He left the door open, hoping a neighbor would be curious and come to see who was here. The studio was on the second floor of a large brick industrial building. Long white sheers covered the windows on both sides of the building, softening the light that pierced the tall windows.

Tucked in a corner to the right of the front door was a two-floor apartment complete with a parlor, dining room, kitchen, washroom, and several bedrooms. The space was out of place in the cavity of the studio, but had obviously been fully lived in, as it was full of rich furnishings. Paintings were everywhere, stacked several pieces deep in some places, leaning against walls and furniture.
 

“Hellooo! Aggie! Honey, I’m so glad you’re back in town! I’ve brought your mail. How was—”

Harry turned as a matronly woman in a blue dress with a white apron came to a full stop, alarm gathering in her expression as she saw him and not Aggie. He smiled at her in an off-handed way. “Mornin’. Didn’t mean to scare you. Aggie is getting ready for an exhibition and sent me to collect a few things—her mail being one of them.”

The woman moved the mail behind her back and her eyes narrowed. “How do I know what you say is true?”

Harry held up his keys. “She wouldn’t give the key to her place to just anyone, would she?”

“Well, no.” She looked askance at him. “Are you one of her models?” Harry smiled without actually answering. “Oh, she is a lucky girl.”

“She is,” he agreed. “She’s been given a chance at winning a space in a juried show, but there is so much competition for the remaining spot that she couldn’t spare the time to collect a change of clothes or grab her mail. You should see the work she did over the summer. Truly awe-inspiring and fresh.”

“Oh. Well, here.” She handed a small stack of mail to him. “Don’t let me delay you. Which gallery did you say she was showing her work at? I cannot wait to see it! I know how much it meant to her to secure a place for herself in a show.”

Harry made a face and shook his head. “I’m a rotten friend. I don’t remember the gallery name. It was over on the other side of town. There was a cafe near it, and that steak restaurant, and I think a jewelry store…” He looked at her as if for help reaching a thought that was just out of his grasp.

“Oh! You mean the Giles Gallery! Did she make it into a showing there? He was a dear friend of her father’s, but even so, he only shows the very best artists’ work. It was her dream to show there.”

Harry snapped his fingers. “Yes! That’s the one! You’d think I’d remember that.” He held up the mail. “Many thanks. You’ve been a great help!” He started to move deeper into the apartment, going toward the stairs as the woman went to the door. “Oh! One more thing. It’s a secret about her show. Since there is only one place left available, she doesn’t want other artists to know about it. Would you be a love and keep this conversation to yourself? There are some men one of the other artists is sending around to threaten her at the fringes of the show, hoping to bully her into not showing. If you see them, best avoid them entirely.”

“Oh! My. Yes. I won’t speak to them. I’ll watch, though, and let her know if they come by. Thank you for telling me!”

* * *

Ester made Harry repeat himself. He’d found the painter’s gallery and, perhaps, the painter herself. She set her pen down and put her letter, mid-sentence, away in the drawer of her escritoire. She stood. Patting her hair to make sure its pins were still in place, she nodded at him. “Please have my carriage brought around.”

“It’s already waiting for you.”

“Where’s the gallery?”

“The Giles Gallery is across town. They are still putting the show together, but I know her art. It’s phenomenal.”

Ester gave Harry a quelling look. Let the girl take her paintings and be famous somewhere back east or overseas or on the moon. This corner of the world was too small for the both of them, and far, far too much was at stake for the woman’s continued presence in her grandson’s life.

She walked into the foyer. Thomas, the butler, handed her the lovely summer bonnet that complemented her linen ensemble. She faced the small mirror in the ornate hatrack beside the door. “I am expecting visitors this morning, Thomas, one of who is my grandson. As I explained earlier, he looks like a wild Indian; do not let his appearance frighten you or any of the staff. He and his friends are to await my return.”

“Very good, madam.”

She went outside, into the sweltering late summer heat, and stepped into her carriage. The ride to the gallery didn’t take long. It was nestled into a block of multi-floor red brick buildings. Her carriage shifted as Harry climbed down from his seat beside the driver and opened her door. She took his hand and stepped down the short steps to the hard-packed dirt road.