Colton's Folly (Native American contemporary romance) (4 page)

She swung back to face the others. “So if you’ll be patient, and if the children respond, and if you’ll then help in the ways I intend to ask, perhaps we can keep that from happening to them. We’ll give them a sense of their worth, restore their dreams and give them a shot at making those dreams come true.”

She turned back to her opponent once more, so caught up in her need to state her case that she was oblivious to the expression of doubt that flickered briefly in his eyes.

She sure knows the right words, he thought. But is there any understanding behind them? He shook his head. “That’s all we need
--some damned do-gooder on a crusade.”

Abby’s humor returned suddenly, and she smiled. “I’ve been looking for a way to describe this venture. Maybe I should call it ‘Colton’s Crusade.’ ”

“ ‘Colton’s Folly’ is more like it.”

She laughed. “That’s even better, and much more to the point. May I use it?”

He inclined his head slightly. “You’re welcome to it.” He nodded to the others, and as suddenly as he’d entered, he left.

Totally at a loss, Abby turned back to the people behind the table, unsure of how to react. Emma Walker gave her a clue when she smiled. “Believe it or not,” she said, “you’ve won this round.”

People shifted in their chairs, and the board members exchanged relaxed smiles.

“Would you like some more information about my future plans for the school, or should we meet again later on for a briefing?”

After a quiet consultation, John answered. “Let’s wait. You know what needs to be done, so we’ll leave it to you. We’ll call a meeting in a couple of weeks and talk some more.”

Emma rose, and the others followed her lead. They shook hands all around, and Abby and Arthur started back to Martha’s house, walking at a leisurely pace despite the lowering clouds and a stiff breeze that foretold rain.

“You handled yourself very well in there.”

“Thanks. Do you suppose that was the reason for Cat’s rather mild protest? I expected him to nail me to the wall.”

Arthur chuckled. “I’m sure it was, but not because he was threatened by you.”

“I imagine that very little threatens him.”

“You’re right about that. Over the years I’ve known him, I’ve learned that what intimidates others merely galvanizes him into action. Tell him something can’t be done and he’ll fight like hell to make it happen. And he’s a hard man to deter once he’s got the bit in his teeth. But I’ll tell you how you got to him, if you want me to.”

Abby nodded wordlessly.

“The man has few weaknesses, but the biggest one is his people--their traditions, their welfare and their future.” He paused, and Abby watched him light a cigarette. “Or, more accurately, his mother’s people.” He stopped in his tracks and looked at Abby pointedly. “Did you know that his father was a white man?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said, her surprise evident.

“He was. Came out to do geological surveys for the Department of the Interior and never left. Fell in love with the place, the way of life and, not incidentally, Martha. Cat is the product of a mixed marriage--and there you have the key to his personality and his motivations.

“His childhood here was a happy one. He lived a relatively sheltered life. Oh, he knew what every Indian child knows about us, but he also had his father as an exceptional example of what the white man could be, so he grew up believing that he had the best of both worlds, that he could, in fact, bridge the gap between the two.

“But when he left here, reality hit him smack in the face. His father tried to help him through the disillusionment and anger, but he made small progress. And then Christopher, Sr., suffered a fatal heart attack. Without his father’s steadying hand Cat moved farther and farther away from his white heritage and closer to the Indian. By the time he came back from college the process was complete. His anger at and resentment of us were also complete.”

“How did you manage to maintain your relationship with him?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps I’d already proved myself to his satisfaction, and since he had to trust someone from the outside, he chose me. I don’t deceive myself that his faith in me is complete, but he does trust me as much as he’ll allow himself to trust any white government official. That remark about your credentials is a perfect example. He knows they’re impeccable or I wouldn’t have brought you out.”

“What he said was ‘passable,’ Arthur,” Abby said with dry emphasis.

He chuckled again. “He said ‘passable,’ but I know he meant ‘impeccable.’ He’s simply not about to give either of us an inch, so you need to be prepared for a battle.” He looked at her with admiration. “But you’ve got him curious. I could see it as he listened to you. You don’t fit the picture he had of you.

“When you talked with such sincerity about being kept down, about being victimized and having no voice, he understood from firsthand experience what you were saying, and, even more important, he believed that you understood it firsthand. That’s what made him consider you in a different light. In fact, I’m not sure you’ve turned out to be what any of them expected. But that’s good. They’ll all leave you alone for a while. The school board will be waiting for results
.--”

“And Cat Tallman will be waiting for me to fall on my face,” Abby interrupted.

“Or something even less dignified,” he corrected with a grin. “But you don’t have to oblige him, you know.”

Abby smiled, too. “I don’t intend to.”

“Good girl. We’ll give him a run for his money.”

Chapte
r 3

After breakfast the next day Martha volunteered to take Abby on a tour of Twin Buttes.

“It being Saturday, you’ll find most folks gone into Crossroads for the shopping. Not that there’s much money to spend, but a few cents here, a few there...”

She pointed out their own general store. “It’s closed on Saturdays ’cause Charlie Antler likes to take the day off and go into town himself, stock up on a few wholesale items and whoop it up in town at night. But he’ll be open bright and early tomorrow.”

Abby looked at the large building. Constructed from split logs, it looked to be two stories high, with a deep porch protected by the overhang of a high-pitched, shingled roof. She could see storage barrels piled against the walls and two long benches flanking the front door. A hitch rail stood out front, and off to the side a large empty corral waited.

Martha pointed. “That’ll be filled with horses come powwow time. You ever been to one?” she asked as they continued on.

“Once. Up near the Canadian border. When will yours be held?”

“Last two weeks in August.”

“I hope I’m around to see it.”

Martha gave her a strange, knowing smile. “You will be-- this year and for many years to come.”

Abby’s own smile was a bit cynical. “You’re sure about that?”

“I am. You came out here like my Christopher, and like him, you’ll stay. I feel that you belong here.”

“Your son might not agree.”

“Maybe not, but he doesn’t have the last word.”

“I should think that as traditional chief he would.”

Martha considered for a moment. “About some things he does. But not about the school. And not about you, either, I’ll bet.” She looked at Abby. “There’s not a woman in the world can’t win a man over if she wants.”

Abby looked back, then turned away. “If she wants.”

They were in the center of the tiny village, and as they walked, Martha pointed out the house of this family or that, and told Abby which student lived in each one. The buildings were an odd mixture of dilapidated shacks made of scrap lumber, corrugated tin and tar paper, and newer, well- built one-story buildings. Abby wondered aloud about the contrast.

“We replace the old houses one at a time as we find some money.”

Finally they came to a building with a huge old cottonwood tree out front and a wooden sign tacked to the front of the belfry identifying it as the Twin Buttes School.

Inside, the two-room building was musty. The sun struggled to shine through windows badly in need of washing, and dust motes danced on the beams, stirring in the breeze caused by Martha’s and Abby’s movements, and settling on desktops and chairs.

“Oh, Martha, what a mess,” Abby groaned. “I can’t have the kids coming back to this.”

“We could clean it up in three hours, you know.”

“Would you be willing to help me?”

“The cleaning things are in the closet in the other room.” They worked for the remainder of the morning, dusting and polishing the furniture until it gleamed, sweeping the floor with clean straw brooms that freshened the air as they gathered up the grit, and finally scouring the windows with ammonia water and old newspaper and brown bags until they glittered in the sunlight. When they were through they surveyed their handiwork with pleasure, and Abby felt compelled to comment.

“I never enjoyed cleaning. It was always such a chore for me, such a solitary task. But this was fun.”

“I know. My girls and I used to do this together. But now that they’re grown and have lives of their own...” She sighed briefly, then touched Abby’s arm lightly. “I’m so glad you came here.”

Abby felt something in Martha reaching into the very deepest, loneliest corner of her own being, the part that no one had ever touched before. As an adult grown to independence and accustomed to looking to herself for comfort and support, she no longer yearned for mothering or closeness with another, as she had during a childhood spent in one foster home after another. But being with Martha had reawakened something Abby had thought long dead.

I could easily grow to love this woman, she thought with amazement.

As if reading Abby’s thoughts, Martha asked, “Do you know the word,
Ina”

Abby thought for a moment. “It means ‘mother,’ doesn’t it?”

“Yes. I will be
Ina
to you, if you want.”

“And should I be
cunski
to you?”

“That would make me very happy. There is a space in here,” she said, and placed a hand over her heart. “Another daughter would fill it.”

“You know nothing about me, Martha. How can you be sure you want me in there?”

“I know what I see here.” Martha pointed to Abby’s eyes. “And I know what I feel here.” She pointed to her own heart. “That is enough for me. You and I will be
hunka.
Do you know this word?”

“It’s the word for relative-by-choice.”

“You think about it and decide.”

“I think I already have.”

They embraced, a bit shyly at first, but then with confidence, then pulled apart and left the building.

As they closed the door and walked the few steps to the house that had been provided for Abby, she had a thought. “Is the rest of your family included with this deal?” Martha smiled. “Since it is by choice, you would have to discuss it with each person separately. Why?”

“I was just wondering what it would be like to have sisters.”

“And a brother.”

Abby laughed. “And a brother.”

She examined the building that would be her home for as long as she remained at the reservation. Its freshly painted exterior sparkled in the sun, and spotless windows reflected the sky above them. No larger than a reasonably sized cottage, it was, like the Tallman house, raised above the ground and fronted by a deep porch.

“Why are your house and this one built differently than the others?”

“Most of our houses have dirt floors, like in our days on the plains, when we lived in tipis. But my husband built these two, and the store, and they are like the buildings he knew as a boy back east. He said our teachers would mostly come from there and would expect to find wood floors.”

Abby nodded, and they went inside, stepping into a large sitting room. Martha had painted the walls the color of sand; they perfectly complemented the oak floors, which had been put together with wooden pegs and then polished to a satiny golden brown by years of wear. The neutral background brought out the warm tones of the woodwork framing the ceiling, baseboards and windows, which had been varnished, but otherwise left in its natural state.

On one wall a huge stone hearth and mantel provided the focal point. Above the mantel hung a large oil painting. The artist had painted a woman seated on the ground in front of her house, in the process of making a bowl. Her legs were stretched out before her, her wide skirts fanning out on either side of her body. The bowl sat in her lap, supported by one hand; in the other she held the paddle that she used to shape and smooth her work. To one side was a collection of pieces in various stages of completion, some bare of decoration, some with designs gracing their surfaces. Off to her right sat a group of
children watching attentively.

In the background was a figure of a young boy leading a pony. His hair was in two braids, and he had a buckskin band tied around his forehead. He wore only an apron decorated in traditional designs and knee-high fringed moccasins. He carried a bow in his right hand, and a quiver of arrows showed above his left shoulder. Abby gazed at his tall slim body, at the faint definitions of developing muscles and at the vaguely familiar features. She turned to Martha with a questioning look.