Daughter of the Sword (20 page)

Gold-seekers on their way west; former New Englanders in their dark suits; frontiersmen in red shirts, laden with pistols and Bowies; Indians in a mixture of native and white-man clothing. Every woman creature from toddler to grandmother wore her best, and though bright-hued calico dominated, there were lawns, muslins, jaconets, tarlatans, and some silk gowns.

“Look at
her!”
whispered Sara.

Melissa Eden was moving toward them, followed by admiring male stares and envious feminine ones. Her blue silk dress billowed out in three flounces, embroidered with darker blue roses, and a white crepe bonnet fetchingly trimmed with a crimson rose set off her pale blonde hair.

“Good morning, my dears!” she cried gaily, catching Deborah's hands in a grip that was surprisingly strong, then twinkling up at Thos, who colored and shifted his feet. “How charming you look—so fresh and young you need no artifice!”

Another way of saying they looked rustic, Deborah thought, though Sara's yellow muslin deserved no condescension. Perfectly simple and hoopless, the dress molded Sara's slender frame but softly emphasized the sweet curving of her high, small breasts, and the color, picked by Johnny, made her look like a bright-petaled dark flower.

Firmly, Sara detached her hand from Melissa's. To cover the fleeting awkwardness, Deborah complimented the older woman on her gown and remarked that this promised to be the biggest celebration ever held in Lawrence.

“To be sure,” agreed Melissa, laughter tinkling in a way that gave men an excuse to eye her appreciatively. “Lawrence isn't all that steeped in age and festivities, of course, though this certainly is more to my taste than that ice-cream-and-cake Fourth we had a few years ago.”

“But that November there was a ball for the Kansas Rifles here at the Free State Hotel,” Deborah reminded her. “Five hundred people came to that and danced till three in the morning.”

“I was there,” Melissa said, smiling, “but you, I believe, were not.”

Deborah flushed. “Mother doesn't really approve of dancing, and I was only fourteen then.”

“How nice,” commented Melissa, “that my handsome young boarder has apparently been able to overcome your estimable mother's rather strict views on this occasion.” Her eyes fixed on Deborah and there was no smile in them, just naked hunger. “Have you heard from Dane Hunter?”

It was as if a knife plunged into Deborah and ripped upward. “Not since he left.” Her voice sounded normal, though her lips were stiff. He hadn't said he'd write, and she didn't expect it, but of course she hoped he'd try to send a message on the mail stage, or by some east-bound traveler or freighter.

For a moment Melissa's face looked gaunt, a foreshadowing of how the years would deal with her, before she shrugged. “Then it seems we must make do with his brother,” she said brightly. “But if you hear, I should appreciate knowing how he gets on. He was going to do my portrait before he so suddenly decided he had to get west before snow blocks the passes. Oh, there's Captain Harrington, down from Fort Leavenworth! How splendid to see him!” And she rushed off to a tall officer of the 1st Cavalry, which, along with St. George Cooke's 2nd Dragoons had, under presidential orders, tried to keep the peace during the reign of the pro-slavers, thus earning the hatred of Free Staters. Now, though, with Territorial Governor. Denver striving for justice and the national Congress aroused and determined that actual Kansas settlers should determine their laws, the final defeat of slave power, through the coming vote on the Lecompton constitution, seemed assured, and soldiers who'd chosen this celebration over that in Leavenworth mixed freely in the crowd.

The Independent Order of Good Templars had organized the parade. Led by the marshal and his aides, the band struck up and led the procession from New Hampshire Street to Vermont Street and back to Massachusetts Street to the river, followed by other officials of the day, including the chaplain, Reverend Nute of the Unitarian Church, members of various lodges, the Lawrence Glee Club, children, and then all the people who were crossing to North Lawrence for the celebration. Rolf whisked Deborah into the procession.

There was no charge for the ferry that day, but it took a while for everyone to cross over.

Once in the shade of the walnut grove, the flag was hoisted and the guard fired salutes, including one for the United States and one for “Kansas, soon to be the thirty-fourth state!”

A Mr. Branscomb read the Declaration of Independence, and one oration followed another as men who had almost despaired of the Territory's becoming a free state strode forward and proclaimed that the spirit of liberty invoked in the Declaration had survived its bloody trial in Kansas and would survive whatever lay ahead.

“For we're free men!” cried one graybeard. “And we'll have no slavery here! Hurrah for John Brown and Jim Lane!”

He got his cheers, but several New Englanders pushed to the front and shouted that Lane had murdered Gaius Jenkins, a better man than he was and not a come-lately to the cause, either. A general fight was brewing when Reverend Nute called for silence and prayed in a way that calmed hot tempers and reminded everyone that they were celebrating their country's birthday.

The band struck up the “Hymn of the Kansas Emigrant,” “Song of Montgomery's Men,” “Yankee Doodle,” “Old Hundred,” “Auld Lang Syne,” and finished with “The Star-Spangled Banner” and thundering applause. Before the crowd could drift away, the mayor stepped up by the flagpole and raised his arms for attention.

“There'll be a turkey shoot next, folks, and then a barbecue in the grove for those who prefer it and a feast at the hotel, courtesy of a most generous guest from England who figured since his country couldn't whip us, he might as well join us! Mr. Hunter, would you like to say a few words?”

Smiling down at Deborah, Rolf squeezed her hand and moved with swift grace to the mayor. “Thank you, sir.” He bowed, shaking hands. “I must confess it gave me a strange feeling to know my countrymen were that ‘foe's haughty host in dread silence reposing,' but I'm glad we war no more.” His eyes danced, resting on Deborah in a way that made people turn to look. “I've found much to admire and love in your Territory, and I'm honored to join with you in this joyous and solemn anniversary. Ladies and gentlemen! Had I wine in my hand, I'd toast to you this great Kansas, the heart of the United States!”

The cheers echoed and reechoed. For all his accent and fine tailoring, the handsome young Englishman had captured them, and when he moved back to Deborah, it was like a conqueror.

There must have been fifty contestants in the shooting match, firing at a target painted on a stump from a standing position without steadying their pistols.

Thos, using Rolf's Colt, was lucky enough to hit the mark, but lost in the second round when only Rolf and two rough-looking professional hunters were left.

To the crowd's astonishment, Rolf hit the center on the third try, while his rivals, perhaps the worse for drink, badly missed. There was silence for a moment after the mayor announced the winner, but then cheering burst out.

More to this English lord than met the eye! Be a proper man yet if he stayed in this country! One of his opponents, though, was less forgiving. Spitting a brown mess of tobacco near Rolf's feet, he squinted and growled, “I'm used to movin' targets, stranger. Movin' targets. Bet you wouldn't show so fine at that kind of real shootin'?”

Rolf's body went so still that it seemed he didn't breathe. “Why don't we both move?” he suggested. “Walk away from each other and fire when we're ready?”

“By God, you're a sport!” The hunter eagerly began to walk backward, but the mayor dropped a hand on his arm.

“None of that!” he commanded. “Come along. Can't you smell that barbecue?”

Rolf stared after them a moment, shoulders hunched as if to attack. Then he saw Deborah. Tension eased from him and he smiled, coming back to her and giving her his arm. “Now you have a turkey,” he said.

Deborah looked at the big caged bird. She could have eaten him with appreciation had he appeared well cooked on the table, but, as always, seeing the creature alive first ruined her appetite for its flesh.

“Do you suppose we could just … let him go in the woods?”

Thos gave an indignant whoop. “'Borah! Think how good he'd be for Thanksgiving! Don't be a ninny!”

“Oh, doubtless another turkey can be found for that.” Rolf shrugged. “I'll bring one out and you can kill it before your sister lays eyes on it and starves us out of mercy! This one can be a live offering for your national holiday. A shame it's not an eagle, but I believe your Benjamin Franklin thought the turkey should have been your country's symbol.” He laughed down at Deborah. “Shall we turn him out now?”

She nodded, grateful to him for not deriding her. In spite of his disgust, Thos came along, as did Sara, and after the willow cage was opened, the four of them shooed the bewildered bird deeper into the trees till its bare blue head and irridescent bronze, green, and blue body blended into the bushes.

“Doggone foolishness!” growled Thos, but Sara stopped his grumbles with slim brown fingers on his mouth and drew him on ahead.

Rolf stopped Deborah behind a large cottonwood. “Since I gave up my reward, do I get another?”

Useless to pretend ignorance of the current that ran between them, though it was heavily charged on her side with hostility and fear. She couldn't endure the burning of his gaze; she looked down at the dead leaves underfoot.

“I—I've aready said I'd dance with you.”

His hands tightened. “Deborah, I'll swear I was the first man to kiss you. I still remember the taste of your blood, the sweetness of your mouth.…”

“Dane should have been the first!” she said fiercely.

“Dane's gone and I'm here.” Rolf's tone was husky. Shifting her wrists to the grasp of one hand, with his free one he caressed her face, her frightened eyes, the side of her throat. Liquid fire trembled through her.

“No!” she whispered. “No!”

With a strangled sound, he put her away from him, almost dragged her after Thos and Sara. “I could kiss you, Deborah, and you'd like it, though you'd swear you didn't. But I want more than a kiss—I want you.”

“I love Dane.”

“Who's gone kiting out to California and may never come back? Who won't marry you unless you'll leave your people?”

Tears filled Deborah's eyes. She couldn't answer. After a few minutes, during which he was plainly struggling with himself, Rolf spoke roughly.

“Do you know the story of Boreas, Deborah?”

Surprised, she searched her memory. “He was god of the North Wind, wasn't he?”

“Yes, and long and long he loved a princess of Athens and wooed her with soft words and singing, trying his best to be gentle, though it wasn't his nature. After some seasons, he despaired of winning her and swept her up, carried her to a rocky shore surrounded by dark clouds, and ravished her. Once it was done, once he behaved according to his true self, she became his wife and bore him twin sons who became Argonauts.”

“An interesting myth.”

“And lesson.”

“It wouldn't have worked if the woman had loved someone else.”

“Who knows? The sure thing is he had her.”

“I'd hate a man who used me that way!”

“Hate's very close to love.” Rolf's breath came faster. “In an embrace, Deborah, a struggle can be as rapture-making as returned desire.”

Thwarted need twisted through her. “Don't talk to me like this!”

Rolf chuckled. “Will you tell your brother? A shame if I had to hurt him! I don't think your father's ever shot a gun in his life! Now don't berate me, darling! I won't do anything—yet—to imperil my honored guest status in your home!”

Thos and Sara had waited for them, and all together, they flowed with the crowd back across on the ferry and to the hotel.

The considerable portion of celebrants who preferred to wash down their meat with whisky were feasting in the grove, punctuating their meal with whoops, song, and occasional shots, but the women and more settled and substantial citizens flocked into the hotel to partake of venison, buffalo, roast pork, and turkey less fortunate than the one Deborah had loosed.

The women of Lawrence had added their dishes and silverware to the hotel's supply, and they joined with the staff to prepare and set out food that loaded the tables. There were tubs of roasting ears of corn, crocks of butter, willow wash baskets heaped with cornbread, great kettles of boiled potatoes and wild greens, hominy, green beans flavored with side meat, constantly renewed skillets of gravy, and innumerable pies—molasses-sweetened sorrel, blackberry, rhubarb, dried apple, and peach. There were even a few cakes, breathtaking extravagance, and big bowls of custard and pudding. A basket of green apples was kept replenished for the children, and most people left the cake and fresh strawberries for the elderly, but there was no lack of succulent red slices of watermelon. There were pitchers of buttermilk and sweet milk, steaming pots of “coffee,” a little of it real, and an assortment of pickles and relishes that would have been prize-winners at a county fair.

When table seating ran out, the remaining throng filled plates, platters, or pie pans and sat on the stairs, the porch, and any available perch, or stood while plying forks, or, in some cases, Bowies.

Off and on during the day, Deborah had glimpsed her parents, and now she was glad to see them settled on a couch with the Cordleys. After Sara and Deborah preceded their escorts through the line, Rolf suggested they all go sit on Melissa Eden's porch, just off Massachusetts Street, where they'd be less crowded.

The prospect of comparative peace was inviting. Carefully balancing filled plates and cups, the four maneuvered out of the hotel and down the street, then got to one side as a wagon creaked past.