Pete (The Cowboys) (13 page)

“I’ll buy you a bigger mirror,” Pete said. “Obviously the one you have isn’t very good.”

“I’d like that.” Her mirror was quite small and covered with spots where the silver had turned black. It was impossible to see more than a small portion of her face at a time. She had asked Carl for a new one. He had said it was a useless extravagance.

“How many dresses do you think you’ll need? Three? Five?”

The idea of having five new dresses astounded her. She’d always made her own clothes. She wasn’t very good at it, but she accepted the necessity. However, it was very difficult to get anything but the plainest material, virtually impossible to get buttons and other ornamental things to make the dress look different, special.

“I’m sure one will be quite enough.”

“Only one?”

“Well, maybe two, if they’re not too expensive.”

“Come on. Let’s see what they’ve got”

Anne had been nervous, even a little frightened, about entering this store, which called itself The Emporium. But she forgot everything at the sight of the dresses and hundreds of other items for sale. She couldn’t believe other women took all of this for granted. She wandered down aisles where counters groaned under bolts of more beautiful cottons, linens, wools, taffetas, satins and silks that she’d ever imagined. The selection of hats, pocketbooks, shoes, gloves, stockings and undergarments seemed to be endless. In one corner of the store drawers contained an endless assortment of buttons, ribbons, buckles, beads, fans, colored silk thread, lace, feathers of all kinds, and appliques—more things than she’d ever imagined could be used to decorate a dress.

“Do you see anything you like?” Pete asked.

The choice was too great. Anne couldn’t possibly make up her mind quickly. There were too many things to consider. She could spend days in the shop and still not see everything.

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“Let’s start with a dress. How about that grayish-bluish thing over there? It looks rather nice.”

One of the clerks approached them. Her manner was cold. She didn’t even look at Anne.

“Are you certain you’re in the right place?” she asked.

Anne felt ice in her veins. Instinctively she reached out to grasp Pete’s arm.

“Do you sell women’s clothes and stuff here?” Pete asked.

“Yes. We have the widest selection in the Territory.”

“Then we’re in the right place. I want that dress over there.”

“I think the hardware store down the street would be more suitable for your needs.”

“I’ll be the judge of what I need,” Pete replied.

Anne could tell he was getting short of temper. “Maybe we’d better go,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I like that dress all that much anyway.”

“I do,” Pete said. “Besides, I remember passing that hardware store. I didn’t see a thing I liked.”

“The Emporium caters to the wives of the army officers and the families of the wealthy ranchers,” the woman said.

“Then we’re in the right place,” Pete said. “I’m a wealthy rancher and she’s my wife. Now get that dress down. And while you’re at it, bring down a few more suitable for a pretty young wife, something pink or yellow or one of those bright colors women are so fond of wearing when they go to parties.”

“I can’t imagine that your wife would be going to any parties around here,” the clerk said.

Anne felt Pete’s body stiffen.

“Do you mean something in particular by that, or are you just naturally a rude, vicious old biddy?”

The woman looked as though he’d slapped her.

“I mean people around here aren’t in the habit of inviting Indians into their homes.”

Chapter Seven

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Pete thundered.

“I mean your wife, if she really
is
your wife, is an Indian.”

The woman couldn’t have shocked Pete any more if she’d pulled a gun from under her apron and shot him.
An Indian!
Anne couldn’t be an Indian. He’d have known by the time he came within ten feet of her. No one could hide anything like that from him.

“You’re either blind or insane,” Pete said. “I don’t care which. But if you go around spreading rumors about my wife, you’ll wish you were anywhere but here.”

The woman turned indignant and appeared ready to blister Pete with her reply.

“No point in blowing up like a toad, even if you’re as spiteful as one. Now get down those dresses. And if you don’t do it on the double, I’ll speak to your employer. Move!”

The order was so peremptory, so unexpected, that the woman jumped. It also brought another woman from the back of the store.

“Is there some problem?” she asked.

“Yes, there is. I came in here wanting to buy some clothes for my wife. Your clerk seems to feel she can tell Indians at a glance. She also seems to feel she won’t serve them. Is that the policy of this establishment?”

The woman looked from Pete to the clerk to Anne and back to Pete.

“Our usual customers are the wives of the officers and soldiers at the fort,” she said coolly. “Our clothes are chosen to suit their tastes and their pocketbooks. If your wife feels our goods will suit her, she’s welcome to see anything she likes.”

“Well, I like that gray dress. And we’d like to see several more in bright colors suitable for a young woman.”

“Certainly. Judy, help me choose some dresses for the … you didn’t give me your name, sir.”

“I’m Pete Warren. This is my wife, Anne.”

“We’ll have several dresses for you to choose from in a moment, Mrs. Warren. Please look around to see if we have anything else that might interest you.”

Pete was pleased to see the owner had put this Judy person in her place right off, but he didn’t like the feel of things. The owner, whatever her name was, was as cold as a dead fish. And angry. Not in the way Judy was angry, all hot and turning red in the face. No, she was cold angry, the kind that never lets you forget it.

That didn’t bother him much. Women were always getting upset over things men would hardly notice. But they’d upset Anne, and that made him angry.

“Don’t let it bother you,” he said when the two women had left. “I don’t know what set that Judy woman off. Just because you have black eyes and black hair doesn’t make you an Indian.”

“But I am an Indian.”

“What!”

The word exploded from him. He couldn’t have stopped it if his life had depended on it. The one kind of human being he hated most in the world, and here he was pretending to be married to her, holding her arm, sleeping in the same bed with her.

“I’m a quarter Indian,” Anne said. “My grandmother was a Crow.”

He kept standing where he was, Anne still grasping his arm, a smile still pinned to her face. “It wouldn’t matter if you were full Indian,” he said finally. “You have a right to buy anything you want from any store.”

His mouth was saying things he didn’t want to say, things he didn’t believe.

But Judy came back carrying the gray dress and something in pink. The undisguised anger in her eyes, the mottled red of her cheeks, the obvious effort she was making just to serve Anne made Pete furious. He didn’t know why. He didn’t understand it. He just knew he couldn’t embarrass Anne in front of this poison-tongued clerk. The owner followed with two more dresses.

“We have to return to our ranch tomorrow,” Pete said. “Can you make any alterations in the dresses by then?”

“If they’re not too extensive. Maybe your wife has a sewing machine and could do up the hems herself. Since she is rather short, they’ll all have to be altered.”

“Do you have a sewing machine?” Pete asked.

Anne nodded.

“Good. Try on as many dresses as you like. Look through all the rest of this stuff. Get yourself some of everything you need.” Anne looked at him as though she couldn’t believe he meant what he said. “No telling when we’ll get back to town. This may have to last you for a whole year.” He didn’t care how much money she spent. It wasn’t his.

He couldn’t keep his mind on the dresses she put on for his approval or the coats, hats, blouses, or other endless items of clothing, enough to outfit half-a-dozen women. He said yes to everything because he didn’t really see anything they showed him. He only saw the massacre when the Indians killed his parents, his brothers and sisters, everybody in the wagon train except himself. He wouldn’t have escaped if he hadn’t been crouched in a dry wash a short distance away taking care of nature’s call.

He could still hear the battle cry of the Indians as they exploded from a dry wash on the other side of the trail, hear the screams of the victims as they fell, one after another, to the arrows, hatchets, spears, clubs of the Comanche who were determined the white man wouldn’t take their land. He had cowered in that wash knowing there was nothing a child could do to stop the slaughter, knowing he would become a victim himself if they discovered him.

He’d hidden there for hours, long after night had shrouded the grisly scene in dark shadows. When he finally came out, it was to drive coyotes away from the bodies. All night long he stood watch, protecting what was left of his family.

Some hunters found him two days later. They buried his family and took him to the nearest town. They sold the wagons and their contents and gave the money to a family to take care of him. When the money ran out, the family turned him over to an orphanage.

He’d never been able to forget hiding in that wash, shaking with fear, not daring to cry in case one of the Indians might hear him, wanting to do something to help, knowing he couldn’t. That helplessness had left him with a tremendous feeling of guilt that he hadn’t somehow saved his family, guilt that he had somehow survived and they hadn’t, guilt for being too afraid to move. It didn’t matter that he
knew
he couldn’t have done anything to help,
knew
they would have killed him if they’d found him. The guilt remained. No amount of reasoning, no broadened perspective that came with age, no accumulated knowledge that came with maturity had been able to get rid of it.

“You can’t like everything I show you. You’ve got to choose something,” Anne said.

Pete jerked his mind from the dark corridors of his past. “What?”

“You’ve said yes to everything I’ve shown you.”

“Then take them all.”

“That’s nearly a dozen dresses. I can’t possibly use that many.”

The possibility of such a tremendous sale seemed to have gone a long way toward making the two women more willing to be cooperative. That was when Pete noticed the pile of shoes, purses, and dozens of other items, some of which he didn’t recognize.

“Those yours, too?”

“Yes. You really must choose.”

“Nonsense,” Pete said, gathering his wits. “They’re your clothes. You choose. Have them pack up anything you like. I’ll settle the bill when I return.”

He had to get away, if only for a few minutes.

“Where are you going?”

Fear—or was it panic—showed in her eyes.

“Outside to get some air. I’ve been closed up too long.”

He forced himself to walk at a normal pace. He couldn’t decide whom he was trying to protect, Anne or himself, but at this point he hardly cared.

“You look like you’re escaping from an Indian attack.”

Pete whirled to find himself face-to-face with the banker. “Just from an hour helping my wife shop for clothes,” he replied.

The banker laughed. “That’s nearly as lethal. I always make my wife take her sister.”

“My wife has no sister. No mother, aunts, or cousins either.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re stuck.”

No, he wasn’t stuck. He had already sent for the papers that would prove Anne had married Peter before he was killed. The ranch would be hers. He didn’t have to protect her any longer. He couldn’t believe he’d defended her. He’d done
more
than defend her. He’d sprung to her defense with the eagerness of a medieval knight. He hated Indians. He always had. He refused to have anything to do with them. He—

His brother was an Indian.

He hadn’t thought of Hawk like that in years. He used to attack him whenever he got the chance. Isabelle had threatened to bar him from the table if he didn’t stop. Jake had sworn to chain him to the horse corral. But Pete had stopped
wanting
to attack Hawk. When? Why?

When he’d finally been able to separate Hawk from the Indians that killed his family, when he had come to terms with the fact that folks are individuals regardless of skin color. He’d done the same thing with the Indians he met in the mine fields, in the saloons, the Indians who warned him of the coming winter. He’d stopped hating them, too. He just thought he did because he’d been in the habit of saying “I hate Indians” for so long, he hadn’t stopped to asked himself if he really did hate them.

But when had he stopped?

When he finally got over the need to feel shame, the need to blame himself for not being able to prevent the slaughter of his family. He was a child then, thinking as a child, feeling and reacting as a child, striking out against the world like a child. Jake and Isabelle had given him a home, love, understanding—had helped him realize he didn’t have to keep on carrying the burden of that tragic morning. He could still grieve for the loss and horror of his family’s murder, but the world was different now. He was different.