Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (20 page)

      
Early the next morning, after another dream-tormented night, Carrie slipped out of the house, fortified with a cup of coffee and a hunk of Feliz's crusty bread. She needed to ride in solitude. Since there was no one about, she saddled Taffy Girl herself and took off. Let Noah rail about her riding skirt tonight. For today, she was free, and the autumn sun was shining.

      
For several hours Carrie rode, soaking up the beautiful day, thinking as little as possible. Then, her meandering, circular course took her into a small glade where a cabin stood in rural loveliness. With several rooms and a long porch across the front, it was really larger than a mere cabin. A large stone fireplace was evident on one wall and the flower beds, although overgrown and not tended, still yielded marigolds and mums in the warm autumn sun, peeping their gold and white heads bravely through the weeds and tall grass.
 

      
She thought the place could be enchanting with a bit of work. The setting certainly was magnificent. Tall oaks and ash trees stood in a semicircle around the cabin like guardians, and a small stream gurgled a welcome nearby, a tiny tributary of the Tongue, no doubt. It was actually not all that far from the big house, yet so artfully secluded it was like another world.

      
With a premonition of sorts, Carrie dismounted and walked slowly toward the front door. It was not locked, swinging open at her touch as if welcoming her. The main room was lighted by three big windows, and the last vestiges of morning sun still tinged the floorboards with gold as it continued its westbound ascent. At daybreak a woman making breakfast for her family would have excellent light.

      
Slowly she walked into the dusty but neat interior, carefully closing the door behind her. The room smelled of wood smoke and lye soap. A faint hint of lavender from an old pomander touched her nostrils. It was a homey, pleasant blend of aromas. The furniture was mostly handmade, rough and sturdy but not unattractive. In one corner a small dry sink with a delicate pitcher and bowl caught her eye. Next, to the washstand stood a brass towel tree. As she admired the pretty white china wash set, now cracked with the fine yellow lines of age, she saw the pictures, gilt-framed ovals lined up on the oak table next to the wall. A tattered lace cloth was spread in a diamond shape across the polished wood, and the frames sat on its uneven surface.

      
Hesitantly, for she suddenly felt like an intruder, Carrie picked up a photo and blew the dust off. As she suspected, it was Noah, much younger, his face not graven with the harsh lines it bore now. Posed beside him was a tall, dark-haired woman with austerely handsome features, dressed in a simple print gown. Her hair was plaited into braids twisted into elaborate coils on each side of her head. In front of the couple stood a small boy with lank, dark hair falling in his face and a much smaller girl, also bearing the stamp of her Cheyenne heritage, clutching a doll. Even in childhood, Hawk's face was arresting as he stared defiantly into the camera with those fierce black eyes.
 

      
Carrie wondered about the little girl. Both children looked like Laughing Woman, not just the obvious coloring of their Cheyenne ancestry, but the strong, straight noses, sensitive eyes, and chiseled cheekbones. Carefully she sat the picture back and looked at the others. One was a portrait of Marah. What wistful sadness filled those night eyes. Would life with Noah Sinclair leave her looking that way someday? Had it already?

      
Studying the portrait, she wandered toward the interior door and looked inside at what must have been Noah and Marah's bedroom. The bed was large, as if made for two tall people. What had once been a bright patchwork quilt lay neatly over it, now faded and crinkled with age. Sunlight spilled in from the window as she walked absently around, touching the bedpost and the high-backed chair beside it.

      
Suddenly a .voice interrupted her reverie. “What the hell are you doing in here?” It was more a furious statement than a question.

      
Carrie clutched the portrait to her breast and gasped, looking up to confront Hawk's blazing black eyes. He stood over her menacingly, his hand outstretched, roughly grabbing the picture from her numb fingers.

      
“I asked you a question, dammit! What are you doing in my mother's house? It's all there is left of her, all he's left alone these years. You don't have any right to sneak in here.”

      
“I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude—and I didn't sneak in. The door was unlocked. I never even knew this place existed, or that it was kept so intact. Like a shrine—” The minute she said it, she could have bitten her tongue.

      
His eyes flashed angrily as he whirled, clutching the picture and walking back into the main room. He carefully set it with the others. Hesitantly she retraced her steps, watching him and realizing all the wealth of memories, happy and painful, that this place must hold for him.

      
He looked at her resentfully. “Maybe it is a shrine. It was hers, and she loved it. Even if he'd let her, Laughing Woman would never have wanted to live in that pretentious mansion on the hill. This, this was her place.” He ran his hand softly across the smooth oak table, polished by years of such touching.

      
“You grew up here—”

      
He cut her off. “And she died here. She was educated, better than any of the white women who first settled here—better than most of them now. Iron Heart sent her to the missionary school to learn the
veho
ways and act as a bridge between them and the Cheyenne. He was actually glad to have her marry He Who Walks in Sun in a Christian ceremony. Well, the
veho
God didn't bless her, that's for sure!”

      
So that explained her clothing and the daintily decorated cabin, Carrie thought. She had been educated as a white. But Noah was not satisfied. Noah was never satisfied, Carried concluded sadly, empathizing with his first wife.

      
“She lived here with you and he built another house—left her behind?” Carrie asked it softly, knowing the answer, yet wanting him to tell her in his own words. How much pain there must be locked inside him!

      
“More than left her behind—he hid her. He was ashamed of her! Ashamed of the daughter of Iron Heart, a great leader of the People. More white settlers came when I was growing up. They brought their white women. As Noah got richer, he got more dissatisfied. After all, the biggest cattle baron in the territory couldn't be known as a squaw man.”

      
“Frank said he turned sour on life,” she replied. “Maybe no woman could have pleased him.” Her eyes were full of pain and empathy; but she hid her face from him, sensing that he would scorn what he construed to be her pity.

      
He looked at her in surprise, then said, “I should’ve figured Frank would tell you, he's so fond of you.”

      
“He loved her, you know.” She looked up at him now, and he nodded.

      
“Yes, Frank's a good man. I often wished—oh, hell, what's the use? What's done is done. Anyway, she loved Noah, damn him! Even when he treated her like dirt, shunned her. He waited for her to die, and she obliged him.” He held the photo of his family in his hand while he spoke, his eyes staring with hate at the tall, light-haired man in the picture. “He was remarried inside the year,” he rasped out harshly.

      
Remembering Lola Jameson's cold blue eyes and possessive manner with Hawk, Carrie could well understand his anger. Not wanting to dredge up ugly memories of Lola, she said, “The little girl in the, picture. Who is she, a cousin?”

      
“That was my sister, Melanie. She died just after this was taken. Pneumonia.” He smiled sadly at the tiny dark figure.

      
“I'm sorry, Hawk. No one ever told me she had a daughter, too.”

      
“It was a long time ago. They're both gone now. This is all that's left.”

      
“Do you come here often?” She had seen a coffeepot and cup set out on the work counter next to the fireplace. It looked like it had been used recently.

      
Raising his guard again, he fixed her with a hard stare. “Today I followed your trail. I hadn't intended to, until I saw where you were headed.” He did not add that he had come here the day after the ball in Miles City. He needed to think about that kiss and her response. This was his tranquil haven. “Sometimes I come here to reminisce about happier days, sometimes just to think.”

      
“I wish I had a place to go. Somewhere of my own, like Marah's place.”

      
“Do you know what Marah means?” His curt response to her wistful statement puzzled her.

      
“No. It sounds biblical. You said missionaries schooled her.”

      
He scoffed. “They picked better than they knew. Marah means bitter. Noah destroyed her. Laughing Woman was named for her joy, Marah for her sorrow.” He looked at Carrie's still, silent form, standing with the light burnishing her hair, so beautiful, so forbidden. Not only was she Noah's wife, she was white, and that most of all made the barrier complete. She was one of the white women for whom Noah had deserted his mother, his sister, himself. They were all poison! Didn't he know that already?

      
“You better go. You don't belong here. You never can. The other house on the hill ought to be more to your taste, anyway.”

      
If he had slapped her, she could not have been more hurt. Every time she seemed to be breaking down his hostility, he turned on her with renewed fury. Wordlessly, she whirled and fled through the front door.

      
When he heard Taffy Girl's hoofbeats vanish over the hill, he sat down in the rocker and clasped his hands together in front of his forehead, pondering all that had happened since he came home. Home. Circle S was not ever really his home, nor in truth was this cabin, with all its bittersweet memories rooted in the long-dead past. The Cheyenne were right. No man could ever truly own the land, any land. Everyone was an interloper. The land only lent its bounty for a brief span. He should go, but if he were to keep the
veho
from despoiling a small part of the People's space, he must stay and see it through, no matter what. He did not believe he would like the cost he must pay.

* * * *

      
That evening Hawk did not return to the big house. Carrie and Noah dined alone. If Noah knew a reason for his son's absence, or cared, he revealed nothing to his wife. Carrie feared it had something to do with her intrusion in the cabin, but, of course, could say nothing of that to her husband.

      
The next morning, she came down early, hoping if she stopped in the kitchen Feliz might know if Hawk had returned in the night. On her way downstairs, she overheard Mrs. Thorndyke talking to Cora, their timid laundress.

      
“It's a disgrace. He was filthy drunk, I tell you. Never should allow a savage to buy liquor, even one who's a half-breed. Lord knows what he might do. Scalp us all in our beds!”

      
Before the hissing whispers could go any further, Carrie glided silently into the room. “Cora, you have a mountain of wash waiting. Here are the towels from my bedroom washstand.” When the woman nodded and scurried off with the linens, Carrie turned to the head housekeeper. “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from gossiping about your employers. My husband and his son may not see eye to eye, but I scarcely think Noah would want to hear his offspring referred to as a scalping half-breed who will murder us all in our sleep!”

      
Mrs. Thorndyke’s eyes narrowed in anger. When Carrie departed, the housekeeper began to calculate. Why should she take his part? Was she like the last one? Wouldn't that be rich! “Just let her try to blackmail me if I catch her sleeping with that red-skinned devil!”

      
Not realizing what she had begun, Carrie slipped into the kitchen, where Feliz was indeed tending to a rather green-looking pair of men—Hawk and Kyle.

      
The Texan was crumpled on a bench, a cup of coffee clutched in a death grip between both hands. “Lordy, Miz Feliz, I'm hung over s' bad, even my har's sore.” He winced as he rubbed his scalp gingerly.

      
“Well, it was something to celebrate,” Hawk replied. “I'm not sure who put who to bed. I'm just glad we got there.” He looked little better than his compatriot. Black bristling whiskers and bloodshot eyes were the more promising features on his haggard countenance.

      
“I thought red and green were Christmas colors,” Carrie chirped brightly as she walked past Hawk, her step even more vigorous than usual for the early hour. He propped one elbow on the table and rested his head against it, glaring balefully at her, rather like a wet cat, but made no reply. “What were you celebrating last night? I gather you went to town,” she queried the invalids.

      
“Yup, we did tie one on,” Kyle ventured, then added vaguely, “I'm not purely sure on ta, whut...”

      
Hawk managed a weak smile as Feliz poured another generous slug of coffee in his cup. “You might as well hear it now. When Noah gets word you'll hear it from Canada to Texas, I expect. It seems the Northern Pacific has settled on its route. It'll take a northerly course, from Bismarck to Helena, dropping down to link up with Miles City, but leaving the Cheyenne lands south of here alone.”

      
She smiled archly. “And just why does my intuition tell me you two had something to do with such a momentous decision?”

      
Kyle laughed, then winced in anguish as the vibrations from his vocal cords reverberated in his skull. “Yew might say we did, ma'am. Thet 'n' more.” He looked at Hawk in conspiratorial assessment.