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SILVER OBSESSION
Marion Marshall
ISBN 1-891020-20-x
copyright (c) by Linda Slater Sept. 1997
cover art by Eliza Black
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
CHAPTER ONE
Winter saw him long before the stagecoach boarded. Indeed, he was very hard to overlook. Tall, muscular, with jet black hair and classic features that even the Stetson pulled down over his face could not hide completely. A very handsome man, perhaps the most handsome man Winter had ever seen, in spite of the shiny U. S. Marshal's badge pinned on the black vest covering his chest.
A half-breed! A half-breed wearing a Marshal's badge! She couldn't have been more shocked if the man was Sitting Bull himself. What could the governor of Colorado be thinking to appoint a half-breed a U.S. marshal? Why, Crazy Horse was probably his Secretary of State!
It wasn't that Winter did not respect the law, but that she didn't have much confidence in it. She had learned by bitter experience that there were certain things that were better handled alone, things the law was helpless to control and even more helpless to prevent.
Still, she could not tear her eyes away from the lawman as the heavy stagecoach lumbered over the plains and began its climb into the Colorado mountains. It was mid-day and stuffy inside the coach. The other passengers were either sound asleep or dozing, rocking back and forth with the gentle sway of the clumsy vehicle as it wound its way through the plains area of southwestern Colorado toward the towering, snow covered mountains that were her destination.
Winter glanced out the window of the stage, grimacing at the cramping muscles in her legs. It had been a long, tiring trip from St. Louis and was still over a hundred fifty miles from being over, but the scenery outside her window seat brought a new-found excitement to her weary mind.
Colorado! She was here at last! For the past eighteen years she had dreamed of this moment, when she would return to the land of her childhood, but for the very first time she knew that dream was coming true. Colorado! How long she had waited! How long she had planned! And now, at last, those plans would see the clear light of day!
She wore a modest traveling dress of dark gray silk with matching hat and scarf and a dainty lace handkerchief she pressed to her lips occasionally to filter out the dust the six horse team kicked up as they maintained a steady pace toward the mountains in the distance.
Behind the hanky, Winter smiled, a smile that did not reach her eyes. No one knew the dress was made of a once fancy silk table cloth she had stolen from the orphanage where she grew up. No one knew the fierce determination that drove her to make this journey, or the quiet resolve that had convinced her to marry a man she had never seen because it provided the means for her to return to this barren, godforsaken land.
She touched the gold locket beneath the high collar and smiled again, a thin, grim smile that held no humor. Her eyes narrowed contemptuously as she stared at the handsome lawman across the stagecoach from her.
He was in his early thirties, she calculated silently as she studied him in the quiet punctuated only by the heavy breathing of the salesman seated beside her. He was dressed in blue denim trousers, outlining his muscular thighs and long legs. A dark green long-sleeved shirt and the black vest stretched over his broad chest.
His jet black hair was an inch or two longer than was fashionable, combed neatly to one side and lay in shimmering raven waves down his neck. The copper tint of his skin made Winter's teeth grind in annoyance, the classic high cheekbones and regal nose shouted to her of his heritage. A neatly trimmed mustache rested above the full, almost sensual mouth, his hands folded in his lap, the tan Stetson pulled down to shade his face while he dozed in the afternoon sun.
Winter knew his eyes were dark, as black as midnight. She felt her stomach churn with hatred for him and all like him. It was his kind who had destroyed her life and left her an orphan at the age of eight. It was his kind who had....
Suddenly, she realized he was watching her and noticed with surprise that the eyes she had assumed were coal black were not black at all, but rather blue. Cobalt blue. So dark and intense a blue that at first glance they rightfully seemed black.
"Something on your mind, Miss?" the lawman asked in a pleasant baritone voice that startled Winter from her private thoughts. His sharp gaze took in her chestnut hair and glowing hazel eyes. She was stunning, just as Ben Barrett had said.
"W-what?" Winter stammered. She lifted the face hanky to her lips in an effort to cover her embarrassment, noting the gleam of humor that made the lawman's lips turn up slightly at the corners.
"You've been staring at me for a good ten minutes. Anything special on your mind?"
"Since when did an Indian get elected a United States Marshal?" Winter snapped haughtily.
"He didn't," was the lawman's mild reply as he shifted slightly on the uncomfortable seat. "He was appointed by the governor of Colorado."
Winter's startled brain tried to formulate a stinging reply, but before she could say anything, the salesman next to her spoke up. "The governor had the good sense to know a good lawman when he saw one. Marshal Dekker's been a godsend to the people of Gold River, Miss. Oh, it's still a wild place, I'm not denying that, but it's a sight better now than it was before Blaine came. A sight better."
Winter glanced from the salesman's confident face to Marshal Dekker's calm, almost amused one. Then her gaze dropped to the Colt .45 that lay strapped around his waist. The weapon was secured by a wide, black leather gunbelt with double rows of teeth to hold it in place and was tied to his thigh by a leather thong. The position of the weapon told her that Blaine Dekker not only knew how to wear a gun; he knew how to use it.
"I didn't realize that the governor was so desperate for help that he'd started hiring gunslingers for marshals," she quipped coldly.
"Reformed gunslinger ," Blaine corrected her with a humorless smile. "The governor figured the best way to combat gamblers and hired gunman was to hire one of his own, so he arranged the appointment. So far it's worked out pretty well."
"I'll bet," Winter replied with a sniff as she turned her attention out the window once more. She sat stiffly staring out the window at the rolling landscape, outwardly calm and reserved, but her insides were churning.
She glanced back at Marshal Dekker, but he was once again dozing on the seat, the Stetson pulled down low over his eyes, his arms folded across his chest. Winter bit her lower lip angrily and drew a long, shuttering breath.
She slowly flexed her fingers, realizing she was clenching them fiercely on the seat in tension, and once more returned her gaze to the countryside beyond the window.
She felt as though she had been traveling for months instead of the nearly two weeks since leaving St. Louis. She had been through a hundred cowtowns along the way; Sedalia, Wichita, Dodge City, and finally Pueblo two days earlier. Small, dusty, noisy towns that had only one thing in common; each one brought her another step closer to Gold River and the new life that awaited her there.
She had spent last night in Canon City and was finally on the last leg of her journey. By now the vast plains of southeastern Colorado had given way to the lush green forests and sparkling streams that gradually rose in altitude as the narrow coach road wound into the mountains. Looking toward the northeast, Pike's Peak rose majestically above its neighboring peaks to overlook the surrounding countryside with great snow-capped grandeur. It was breathtaking, even to Winter's distracted mind.
She knew that a few miles further west lay the Garden of the Gods, 700 acres studded with huge red sandstone rock formations. Winter's brow wrinkled when she remembered her father's tale of the Utes who believed their Great Manitou 1ived in Pike's Peak. When an army of giants invaded Ute territory, the Great Manitou turned them to stone.
She remembered the happy times when her father had spent hours with her on a cold wintry night before a roaring fire drawing pictures of the rock formations and explaining why each had acquired its name. There was Vulcan's Anvil, the Two Old Maids, the Three Graces that resembled the three Holy Men from the Bible, and the Balanced Rock.
Over the years, he had explained, many of the formations took on names of their own, although it often took just the right angle, or just the right glint of sunlight to capture the image the names projected.
Winter shook the image of those happier times from her mind and touched the gold, heart-shaped locket at her throat. Her eyes turned grim, her jaw became hard as granite as bitterness flooded through her slender frame. Those happy times were gone forever. They were now only bittersweet memories that kept the flame inside her alive.
Her attention was drawn from her memories when the plump, pleasant-faced woman at the opposite end of the seat directed a question to the salesman.
"Isn't this Indian country?" she asked nervously with a sideways glance out the window.
"Yes, ma'am, it is," the salesman replied gravely. "Was a time the Cheyenne and Arapaho nations inhabited this whole part of the state. Now there's only a few scattered groups, although there's been talk lately that more and more are drifting back up this way from the reservation in Oklahoma."
"Two Feathers' tribe," Winter agreed quietly. She felt a smug sense of satisfaction
when Blaine Dekker's head lifted and his dark blue eyes opened curiously at her informed
remark. "Two Feathers left the reservation over a year ago with a small band of followers. Every week more Cheyenne follow his trail north, returning to their old hunting grounds. Soon the whole Cheyenne nation will have come home."
"You know a lot about the Cheyenne," the salesman announced with a surprised expression.
"My father spent years putting the Cheyenne's language and customs down in his journals," Winter replied seriously in that same quiet tone. "I've spent the better part of my life studying them."
"Any special reason?"
Winter's eyes swung immediately to meet Blaine Dekker's steady gaze. The question had been asked mildly, but Winter was certain the lawman was expectantly awaiting her answer.
"Yes," she replied shortly with a curt nod. "Very personal ones."
For a long moment they stared at each other. Winter felt the hair at the base of her neck rise with expectation, readying for a fight, and was mildly disappointed when Blaine merely closed his eyes again and settled back in the seat for another nap.
She let out a long sigh as she returned her eyes to the window. She could close her eyes and imagine what an argument with Marshal Blaine Dekker would be like. He appeared to be the kind of man who didn't like to lose at anything. He'd go straight for the jugular every time and hold on like a bulldog. There was nothing superficial, nothing phony about the man. She was certain of that.
Strangely, she also was certain that Blaine Dekker was a man capable of powerful emotions. The kind of man who kept those feelings buried deep inside, refusing to let them surface because he felt they were a weakness and Blaine Dekker was a man who did not tolerate weakness in himself or in others.
* * *
The heavy stage climbed higher into the mountains, over Royal Gorge, through Cottonwood Creek, moving ever closer to the clouds. A brisk wind began to blow. The clouds hung heavy and gray, promising an early winter as the stage approached Bass River Pass. Winter did not realize she had been dozing until the sudden halt of the carriage awoke her. She stifled a yawn and sat upright in the hard seat, her eyes widening with surprise when the stagecoach driver called down to the lawman.
"Blaine, could I have a word with you?"
Blaine Dekker uncurled his long legs and climbed down from the coach. The driver met him a few feet away from the door of the carriage and glanced nervously back at the passengers before stating his business. He kept his voice low but it carried back to Winter's sharp ears on the cold breeze blowing across the mountains.
"I don't like the looks of it, Blaine," she heard the weary driver say with a nod toward the pass looming before them. "The other end of the pass was where Dodd's coach was hit last week. I sure ain't looking forward to tangling with Two Feathers' braves out looking for a little excitement."
Blaine Dekker stared at the open mouth of the pass silently for several minutes. The trail disappeared into the cavernous pass a few feet beyond the entrance. The high walls, dotted with scrub-brush stretched half-way to heaven, blotting out the sun and providing excellent coverage for bandits waiting to attack the on-coming carriage or Indians out looking for excitement as the nervous driver suggested.
"It's a perfect place for an ambush," Blaine agreed while his sharp eyes searched the high rock walls for signs of danger. Only the brisk wind moved the scattered bushes. There were no other signs of life but Blaine knew that meant nothing.
"That's what worries me," the driver grunted. "That's why I'm sure glad you decided to make this trip with us. If we're gonna get hit by the Cheyenne, your gun will sure come in handy. Besides, " he added with a grin, "Who knows the Cheyenne better than one of their own?"
Blaine's cobalt eyes darkened as he looked away. He knew Charlie meant no harm by his thoughtless statement, knew the man was actually trying to pay him a compliment. Still, his jaw tightened, his expressive lips thinned as he pulled his hat down further against the chill wind. "If you think because of my Cheyenne blood that I can tell what they're thinking, you' re wrong, Charlie," he said quietly as his gaze swung back to the driver's.
"I didn't mean nothing, Blaine," the man hurriedly explained. "I just meant that..."
"I know you didn't, Charlie," Blaine said with a thin smile. "Forget it."
Then he nodded toward the pass. "Just in case, I'll ride up on top with you through the pass."
Winter's eyes stabbed daggers of contempt through him when he walked hack to the coach and lifted his rifle from inside. It wasn't enough that the man was half-Indian! He was actually half Cheyenne! How could he dare show his face among decent people? But then, she reminded herself more calmly, he'd obviously been raised as white. He probably considered himself as decent as anyone on this stage. She did not share that opinion.
Blaine ignored her sniff of contempt and climbed up onto the box beside Charlie. In seconds the heavy vehicle lumbered into the dark chill of Bass River Pass.
Inside, Winter gripped the seat nervously and peeked out the curtain, but she could see nothing but the high, barren walls of the pass only inches from the side of the coach. The hair rose at the back of her neck as she reached for her bag and gripped the heavy pistol inside for comfort.
Blaine Dekker was right about one thing; if the Cheyenne planned to attack the stage, they could have found no better spot. There was no way to turn the vehicle around once inside the pass and only one way out. For the first time, Winter hoped the half-breed lawman was as good with a gun as her companion dozing on the seat beside her had insinuated.
"What do you think has got the Cheyenne on the prod?" Charlie asked as he maneuvered the stage through the rocks.
"They've been on the reservation too long," was Blaine's curt answer. He scanned the rocks on both sides but saw nothing. Still, there was a cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. They were out there, just ahead, he knew it, he felt it in his soul as he cursed Ben Barrett for asking him to make this trip. Damn Ben's silver mine! he thought angrily as he swallowed, forcing himself to take a deep breath.
Damn Ben Barrett for being too busy trying to eke out a living from that miserable hole in the ground to meet his own mail order fiancée in Canon City. If not for that attack the week before on the Gold River stage, he wouldn't be here, for Ben wouldn't have asked him to make sure his bride got to Gold River safely.
"Shit!" he muttered to himself as he caught the glimpse of a movement high above the trail, behind an outcropping of rock just ahead. He lifted the Winchester and flipped the lever to send a bullet into the chamber. "Charlie, how far is it to the Bass River relay station?" he asked calmly.
"Oh, 'bout eight or ten miles. Why?"
"You best be whipping up this team, Charlie. We're about to have company and since they've got us outnumbered ten to one, our only chance is to outrun them to the station."
"Not much chance of that, Blaine. These horses are winded after pulling that grade. We can't outrun Indian ponies," Charlie exclaimed worriedly.
"They've got to get to those ponies before they can chase us," Blaine pointed out. "That means we've got a few minutes lead before they can climb down from the rocks and get mounted. It may be enough." He lifted the rifle and took aim at the slight movement ahead. "It damned well better be enough," he muttered to himself as he squeezed the trigger.
Charlie lashed the team, startling the weary animals into a gallop. The coach weaved drunkenly from side to side as it sped through the pass. The weeds and brush along the sides of the rocks brushed the vehicle and slashed at the window curtain.
Winter yanked the Colt from her bag and pushed the tattered curtain aside. Sliding down into the floor of the coach with the other passengers, she gritted her teeth with irritation at the wails of panic from the other women as she drew a bead on the figure crouching in the rocks above the coach.
She squeezed the trigger, smiling as the copper figure clutched at his chest and toppled into the roadway behind them. Blaine Dekker's rifle barked above her, echoing through the thin ceiling of the coach as he answered the Indian fire. Bullets ricocheted off the rocks, screaming into the earth with dull thuds.
The plump female passenger cowering on the floor at the opposite end of the coach screamed frantically when a stray shot penetrated the wall of the careening vehicle, spraying splinters into her neck and shoulders.
Winter glanced at the woman, then satisfied that the injury was minor, returned to her task at the window. A bullet slammed into the stage just to the right of Winter's face, but she did not flinch. Instead, she shifted the arm holding the heavy pistol and fired calmly.
She did not know if her shot landed for the vehicle lurched into the sunlight at the far end of the pass. The abrupt light blinded her momentarily and when she recovered, the Indians had been left behind.
There was hardly time to breathe a sigh of relief before she heard war whoops as the attackers leaped to mount their ponies and give chase. Winter risked sticking her head out the window to look behind the coach, her heart freezing in her chest at the sight of a dozen warriors leaning low over their ponies' necks, rapidly gaining on the heavier vehicle.
She heard a creak in the top of the coach as Blaine Dekker moved from the seat to stretch out on his stomach. Seconds later his rifle roared as he fired.
Winter cringed at the sound of the on-coming warriors' bullets slamming into the luggage atop the coach. Then she leaned out the window briefly and smiled faintly when the leader of the attackers did a double flip off his pony to land face-down in the loose shale at the side of the road.
Charlie whipped the tired team into a spirited run, but in only moments the exhausted horses began to slow. Winter knew the Indians would overtake them in seconds as she hurriedly began to reload her pistol. She had not realized how frightened she was until her fingers clumsily spilled the cartridges from her bag all over the floor of the coach.
She frantically searched for them, shoving them into the cylinder and snapping it back into position, then flinging aside the curtain and taking aim behind her at the on-rushing riders.
Above her on the top of the weaving vehicle, Blaine's eyes widened in momentary surprise. It had to be the girl, he knew instinctively. The salesman was not carrying a gun and even if he had, Blaine knew the nervous little man was not capable of hitting an on-coming rider at a dead run. Quite a girl, Miss Winter Bradley, he thought with a tight smile.
Suddenly, to Winter's amazement, the Indians broke off the pursuit. Craning her neck forward, she saw with great relief the solitary relay station growing closer in the distance. It was the most welcome sight on earth.
But then, as the stage came to a halt in the yard, the Indians came from the rocks again, screaming and shooting as they bore down on the vehicle. The stage hands inside the rough log cabin returned their fire, but the attackers plunged ahead determinedly. Then Winter gasped in alarm as the door beneath her arm was yanked open and Blaine Dekker pulled her from the coach.
"Run for the house!" he commanded harshly without looking at her. His attention was on the riders that were now only a few hundred yards away.
Winter gathered up her skirts and ran for the protection of the relay station. She knew the protecting fire of the men inside would deter the Indians momentarily, long enough for the passengers to reach safety.
It took only seconds for all the travelers to gain the protection of the building. It
was then that Winter realized everyone had reached safety except Blaine. She ran to the nearest window to look out, raising a hand to her lips in alarm for the lawman was still crouched behind the open door of the stage, firing rhythmically at the Indians who had taken cover behind some of the outbuildings.
"Marshal!" Winter heard herself shout, "Run for it! I'll cover you!"
She did not miss the momentary look of surprise that crossed Blaine's handsome face before he whirled from the protection of the door to run for the house. Bullets kicked up sand around him as he ran, crouched low, under the covering fire of the defenders inside.
He was halfway there when a hair-raising yell made him look back over his shoulder. One lone Indian was riding hard toward him, rifle held in one hand, firing dangerously close.
Blaine reached for his pistol and fired once, sending the Indian toppling headlong into the dirt. Then abruptly, the attack was over and the remainder of the Indians slipped away into the cover of the rocks beyond rifle range.
Winter moved between the men inside the house, walking swiftly into the yard. She approached the dead Indian determinedly, her lips set in thin lines, her dark brows drawn together with concentration.
"Is he Cheyenne?" she asked Blaine in a strained voice while the toe of her shoe turned the Indian face-up so she was looking down into his face.
"Arapaho."
Winter blinked in surprise and looked up into the lawman's studious features. Her hazel eyes locked with his dark blue ones, holding his gaze doggedly, contemptuously.
"What possible difference could it make whether he's Arapaho or Cheyenne?"
Blaine asked at last.
Winter swallowed as she glanced once more at the dead Indian at her feet. Then she lowered the pistol in her hand back into her bag and squared her shoulders.
"I came back to this Godforsaken land for two reasons, Marshal," she said in crisp, clipped words. "One, was to marry a miner and make a new life for myself."
When her voice faltered, Blaine's dark brows rose with curiosity, wondering why she'd paused. "And the second?" he prompted after a moment of silence.
"The second is to find a Cheyenne warrior."
"Why?" Blaine could not resist asking.
"To kill him!" Winter snapped harshly. She whirled amid the swish of petticoats and stalked toward the house.
"That was some fine shooting," Blaine said as he took two long strides and caught up with her. "Ben Barrett's going to be real surprised to find out his new bride can shoot like a man. Probably be pretty pleased too."
The ironic humor in his voice raised the hackles at the base of Winter's neck. "Do you know Ben?"
Blaine nodded, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Yes, ma'am, and I don't think you're exactly the picture he's painted himself of you."
Winter halted abruptly and swung around to stare fiercely up into Blaine's calm face. Her voice trembled with fury, her hands shook until she clenched them both tightly on her bag as she faced him. "Marshal Dekker," she said coldly, "'I'll thank you to keep your observations to yourself."
"All right," Blaine agreed mildly as they began walking again. "Then I won't tell you what trouble you can get into trying to find one particular Cheyenne warrior."
"Fine! And I won't tell you how despicable I find it that a man like you is wearing a badge and representing the people of this state!"
"A man like me?" Blaine asked with raised brows.
"A half-breed!" Winter snapped before she could gain control of her tongue. In the centimeter it took for her to realize what she'd said, the expression on Blaine's face changed only slightly, but Winter saw the chill that came into those cobalt blue eyes. She almost regretted the stinging insult. The lawman's face remained calm, undisturbed, but the twitch of a muscle in his lean face told Winter her dagger had been right on target.
"Miss Bradley, my bloodlines, or the lack of them, need not be of any consequence to you," Blaine replied in a moment. His eyes held Winter's prisoner, made her throat suddenly feel dry and her knees weak. "But just for the record, I'm a marshal because I'm damned good at the job. Nothing more; nothing less. And while we're on the subject of personalities, let me tell you just one thing. Ben Barrett is one helluva good man. Too damned good for some high-minded, eastern female that thinks she's about two steps above anyone else. If I were you, Miss Bradley," he added, emphasizing the word. "I'd be damned grateful that a man like Ben would consider marrying a spiteful old maid! You're sure getting the best of the bargain!"
Winter stood speechless, her mouth open in shock, as he turned his back and stalked away to join the men on the porch of the house. Then her mouth snapped shut as her eyes narrowed contemptuously while she glared at his back.
Whatever insult she'd lashed at him, he'd certainly known how to turn it around. He'd hit her where it hurt worse. He must have suspected that she was sensitive about her age and her unmarried status.
Sudden tears stung her eyes but she shrugged them off, stalking past him into the house. Damn him! Damn his half-breed soul! She'd show him! She was going to make Ben Barrett the best wife he could have ever found. If he and Marshal Dekker were friends, so much the better. That would just make it easier to prove to that hateful man how happy she could make Ben Barrett.
One thing was absolutely clear to Winter as she moved toward the inviting warmth of the roaring fireplace and spread out her hands to revive the circulation that strangling her purse had cut off. The battle lines had been distinctly drawn between herself and Blaine Dekker.
CHAPTER TWO
Gold River, Colorado greeted the dawn of September 21, 1880 with its usual gusty splendor. Winter stretched her neck trying to see everything out the stagecoach window as Charlie whipped the team through town, cursing and shaking his fists at slow moving pedestrians who failed to get out of his way quickly enough to please him.
When the heavy carriage finally slid to a halt in front of the town's only official hotel, she wasted no time in hurrying down from the coach. She dusted her skirts off absently while straining for a glimpse of a familiar face among the dozens of men who loitered on the hotel porch, but saw no one that resembled the picture of Ben Barrett she carried in her bag. She was not aware of the many appreciative glances as she stepped onto the porch and stuck her head inside for a peek. Fighting down a moment of panic, she gathered her wits and raised a finger to an older gentlemen wearing a visored cap.
"Excuse me, sir," she said in a squeaky little voice she hardly recognized. "Could you tell me if Mr. Ben Barrett is around here somewhere. He was supposed to meet my stage," she added lamely, her face beginning to pinken from the knowing expression on the man's face. It was obvious he thought she had been abandoned by some fickle lover, Winter fumed silently as she turned away to search the crowd again.
"Ben's been delayed," she heard Blaine Dekker say at her shoulder. She whirled to look up into his slightly amused face, feeling her temper rise.
"How do you know that?" she demanded furiously.
The lawman's wide shoulders moved in a nonchalant shrug. His dark blue eyes were twinkling at her discomfort. He had guessed her alarm at being unable to locate her fiancé at the end of her long journey.
"Why didn't you tell me that before?" she snapped.
"You didn't ask me."
The polite arrogance in his voice made Winter's teeth grind, but rather than rise to his bait, she flounced past him back toward the stage. "Mr. Charlie, ",she said sweetly to the sweating driver. "Would you be a lamb and have my luggage sent to my room at the hotel?"
Charlie grinned widely and paused from throwing bags off the top of the stage to nod enthusiastically. "Why, yes, ma am, be proud to. Anything else I can help you with?"
"Why, yes, as a matter of fact," Winter replied. She suppressed a tiny smile when Blaine snorted behind her. He obviously didn't appreciate her charm, she thought with a smirk.
"Could you please direct me to the Indian agency?" she asked Charlie.
"Why, yes, ma am. Just go on down this street till you reach the end of town. You can't miss it."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Charlie, you've been most helpful," she cooed as she lifted her skirts and began walking in the direction Charlie had indicated.
"Ben will be in town later today. Probably in time for supper."
Winter grimaced irritably when the long-legged lawman fell into step beside her. "Thank you, Marshal," she said with exaggerated politeness. "I will be certain to tell Ben how helpful you've been on the final leg of my journey. And how gentlemanly also."
"I doubt you'll surprise Ben any, Miss Bradley. We've known each other a long time." There was a long silence before Blaine cleared his throat and tried again. "Look, Winter, we kinda got off on the wrong foot. What I said back at the relay station...well....maybe I was too hasty."
"That's very generous, Marshal," Winter replied coolly with a scornful glance upward. It was impossible to ignore the man's physical appeal, she thought as they walked down the dusty, litter strewn street. In spite of his mixed blood and his arrogance, Blaine Dekker was an extremely attractive man.
It was more than his handsome face and lean muscular body too. There was
something exciting about him, she reasoned silently. Something primitive, wild, untamed. But of course that came from his Cheyenne heritage. Even if he had been raised as a white man, the blood ties to his Indian ancestors would have to show up somehow.
A horse-drawn cart almost ran her down when she rounded a curve in the street. The instant protective hand that grabbed her wrist and pulled her back to safety was strong and sure of itself, like the rest of Blaine Dekker. Still, Winter did not draw away immediately.
She did not like the way the blood flooded into her face when she looked up at him, nor the way her heart pounded furiously until he let go of her hand. It made her wonder again about her wedding night and what it might be like to give herself to Ben Barrett for the first time.
She squared her shoulders and pushed those uncomfortable thoughts into the back of her mind. Looking directly into the curious cobalt eyes that watched her so closely, she halted in the street and turned to face him.
"As I said, Marshal, that's most generous of you but it doesn't change my initial opinion of you. I don't like bossy, arrogant men, at best, and I like them even less when they're half Cheyenne. So you'll have to excuse me if I don't accept your apology. Now, if you'll kindly disappear, I have an important matter to discuss with Mr. Gordon at the Indian agency."
Blaine's dark eyes did not waver nor reveal any emotion while they held Winter's cold, scornful gaze. "I won't apologize for my blood, Winter, because I had nothing to do with my parents choosing to have a half-breed offspring. But Ben Barrett is a good friend of mine. Has been for a long time. I don't intend to let his marriage change that fact. So if you think I'm simply going to fade into the sunset, you'd better think again. The way I see it, you have two choices. One, you can accept me and try to make the best of it, as I intend to do, or two, you can make yourself miserable over it. But the plain fact is that I'm Ben's friend and that's how it's going to stay."
The calm, authoritative manner he spoke made Winter's hackles rise again but what he said also made sense, as much as she hated to admit it. "All right, Marshal," she said grudgingly after a moment, "You've made your point. I shall attempt to tolerate your presence in my life, but I assure you that I won't like it."
Blaine hid the smile that tugged at his lips as they resumed walking toward the edge of town. He doubted seriously if Ben Barrett had any idea what a shambles this opinionated, high-tempered female was going to make of his life, then wondered why that thought struck him as amusing.
Suppressing the grin, he glanced down at Winter's erect shoulders and determined stride. Then his handsome face took on a much more serious expression.
"A man can never say you're not forthright, Winter, if nothing else," he remarked dryly.
Winter dismissed his irritating presence from her mind as much as was possible and concentrated on Gold River. She had kept careful tabs on the town over the years so what she saw now came as no surprise.
Situated high in the Rocky Mountains, Gold River was a prime example of a boom town. It had first been settled in l859 when gold was discovered and had flourished until 1866 when the strikes began to play out. Then in 1876 carbonates of lead with a high silver content were discovered and the town flourished once more. Now Gold River rivaled Telluride and Goldstrike as mining centers, for each day miners dug hundreds, even thousands of dollars out of the ground.
Winter knew from newspaper reports that the once sleepy village had exploded into a city of over twenty-five thousand people during that time. It was no secret that gold and silver, or rumors of them attracted swindlers, gamblers, and thieves, as well as real estate speculators and whores.
Gold River was a lusty town containing eighty-five saloons and forty-two houses of prostitution, although the first real signs of civilization had also begun to appear in the
form of a school and a church or two located among the more sinful enterprises.
Winter's heart lifted with hope. At least there was the promise of something permanent and worthwhile here, something to build her future on. A tiny smile curled her lips upward at the thought of her own children attending this school someday. It was the most pleasant thought she'd entertained since leaving St. Louis.
Gold River was a town not so much of buildings, but of buildings under construction. More people were cramped in wagons, tents, and temporary shelters than had permanent dwellings, but if that was a problem no one seemed to mind.
Most everyone Winter encountered on that first stroll through town greeted her with a smile and a nod of respectful recognition to Blaine. There was an air of festivity in the city that was contagious. Even Winter's usually serious face softened after so many friendly greetings. Soon she was actually beginning to feel at home here in this sprawling, boisterous silver town. She even began looking forward to meeting the man she'd promised to marry. But first she had business with the Indian agent.
At least the building that housed the Indian agency was made of wood and looked solid, Winter thought with relief as she climbed the steps of the porch. It was easy to understand why the agency was located at the very edge of town. Most citizens were a bit nervous about Indians riding into town every few days to collect their supplies, even if they were peaceful. And now with the attacks on the stage lines, Winter knew the town had to be more nervous than usual.
She let out a sigh of relief when Blaine made no effort to accompany her inside. Instead he leaned against the post supporting one end of the porch and lit up a thin, brown cigar he took from inside a vest pocket.
Stepping inside the chilly interior of the office, she was greeted by the welcome aroma of fresh perked coffee. It came as a surprise to realize she was so hungry, then remembered she hadn't eaten since the day before.
Then her attention was drawn to the man who appeared from behind a curtain
separating the office from a private room in the back. He was a tall, distinguished looking man most likely in his early forties, Winter speculated as he rounded the long counter and approached her with a beaming smile.
He had graying hair, startling gray eyes and a lean, athletic build beneath the tailored business suit. Winter liked his looks immediately. She was positive she could do business with a man of his obvious intelligence and manners.
"Mr. Gordon, I'm Winter Bradley. It's nice to finally meet you in person," Winter said, extending her hand politely.
Marsh Gordon had to swallow before finding his voice. This lovely, cultured young woman was not at all what he'd expected. "Miss Bradley, I must say this is quite a pleasant surprise. I had no idea from your letters that you were so young, or so beautiful," he exclaimed with a wide smile. He lifted her gloved hand to his lips, then indicated an empty chair near the window.
"Mr. Gordon, I'd like to get right down to business," Winter said crisply after taking the offered seat. She folded her hands neatly over her bag as she returned the Indian agent's curious gaze. "As I'm sure you know from our recent correspondence, I need your help."
"Ah, yes, the matter of your missing Cheyenne warrior."
Winter's hazel eyes began to snap with impatience at Gordon's rather casual referral to her problem. "Mr. Gordon, I realize that you think my search for one particular Cheyenne warrior is foolish, but I assure you, I'm quite serious about it. Deadly serious."
Marsh studied her flushed cheeks, admiring the clear honesty in her eyes as well as the rest of her lovely face. Striking, he thought to himself. Very striking. But so serious.
"Miss Bradley, I don't mean to make light of your situation, but I'd like to reiterate what I've stated in my letters to you over the past few months. The possibility of locating one Cheyenne buck is next to impossible."
"Why?" Winter demanded curtly.
"Because, Miss Bradley, at this moment there are over two hundred braves in Two Feathers' camp. Most of them are approximately the same age as the man you're looking for. And Miss Bradley, if you've studied the Cheyenne as you say, you've got to know that asking them questions about one of their own is like talking to a stone wall. They'll never reveal anything, not to a white man."
"There must be some way, some method of finding him," Winter insisted. She leaned forward, her eyes pleading with Marsh to help her. Once more she was rewarded by a smile.
"Miss Bradley, what makes you think you'd know this man if you should find him?" Marsh inquired indulgently with a slight smile. "One warrior looks pretty much like the next. How will you know when you've got the right one?"
"I'll know him, Mr. Gordon," Winter answered coldly. Her voice tightened, the clear hazel eyes became sparking pools of hatred that made Marsh shift uneasily in his chair.
"I'd know him anywhere, in a group of two or two hundred. I'll never forget what he looks like, never." Satisfied that she had the agent's undivided attention, Winter relaxed a bit and drew a long, shuddering breath. "For one thing he has a scar on his left wrist, shaped like a cross. It matches this one," she added.
Marsh looked down at her offered wrist, saw the tiny, pale scar that criss-crossed her left wrist. Then leaning hack in his seat, he nodded patiently. "Miss Bradley, I understand your feelings..."
"No, you don't understand my feelings!" Winter contradicted sharply. The color rose in her cheeks as she leaned forward again, gripping her bag so tightly her knuckles began to pale. "You can't possibly understand my feelings, Mr. Gordon, so don't patronize me! This man is responsible for the cold-blooded murder of both my parents! I saw him! I know what he did! And I will find him, Mr. Gordon, if it takes the rest of my life!"
Marsh blinked at the emotion behind her words. His smile slowly faded when he finally realized just how serious she was about her search. "Miss Bradley, you said yourself you were only eight years old the last time you saw this man...what did you call him?"
"Rising Sun. His name is Rising Sun."
"Yes, yes, Rising Sun," Marsh repeated absently as his fingers drummed on the desk. "You were eight and he was twelve or thirteen. That's a long time, Miss Bradley, eighteen years. He's a grown man now, if he's even still alive. You know how many Cheyenne died on the march to Oklahoma in '64? Thousands. Why, this Rising Sun of yours is probably dead, probably been dead for years."
"You may well be right, Mr. Gordon," Winter agreed quietly. "If he's dead I'll be satisfied, but I must know. I must know one way or the other."
"All right, Miss Bradley," Marsh agreed after a moment. "I'll do what I can, but I won't promise anything. That's the best I can do."
"That will be fine, Mr. Gordon," Winter assured him. She rose and extended her hand once more. "I'll be expecting to hear from you then."
She retraced her steps across the narrow room and flashed Marsh a parting smile before leaving the office. A groan passed her lips at the sight of Marshal Dekker waiting for her on the porch. She'd almost forgotten about him.
She did not speak but hurried from the porch and strode back toward town. In seconds Blaine had caught her and he once again fell into step.
"Forget it, Winter."
His words were harsh, his voice grim with warning. It made the girl's head snap up to glare defiantly into his eyes.
"Whatever do you mean, Marshal?" she asked with feigned sweetness.
"Forget looking for this Indian, Winter. You'll find nothing but trouble," Blaine
said grimly.
"I just might also find the man I'm looking for."
"Suppose you do, then what?"
The challenge in his voice stung Winter's temper. She halted in the street to glare at him, struggling to get her words past the enormous lump of emotion that filled her throat and burned her eyes. "Then I'm going to kill him!"
"Just like that? A full grown Cheyenne warrior is just going to stand still and let you kill him? Grow up, Winter! The man you're looking for will cut you to pieces before you can even blink an eye. You wouldn't have a Chinaman's chance!"
"You saw me shoot!" Winter exclaimed angrily, brushing a stray lock of chestnut hair from her face. "I can take care of myself!"
"Against a Cheyenne warrior? Where's your head, girl? And what about Ben? You're going to risk his life because of this insane vendetta?" Blaine snapped scornfully.
"This has nothing to do with Ben!"
"Oh, that's where you're wrong. You're going to marry Ben, aren't you? Do you think he's going to let you wander off to track down a Cheyenne brave all by yourself? Hell, you don't know anything about Ben Barrett."
"Perhaps I know more about him than you think, Marshal," she replied insolently. "But that's not the point. The point is that I'm going to find this man, one way or another. And I'll thank you to mind your own business!"
"It is my business if you stir up more trouble with the Indians," Blaine snapped back. "I'm warning you, Winter. Forget this business. Leave the Cheyenne alone. I have more than enough to do trying to keep some kind of peace in this town without you stirring up the whole Cheyenne nation."
"Taking care of this town is your problem, Marshal," Winter spat furiously. "Finding Rising Sun is mine."
She whirled around to flounce down the street toward the hotel. Behind her,
Blaine drew a deep breath to steady his temper. Jesus! What had Ben Barrett gotten himself into, he wondered vaguely as he watched Winter's disappearing figure merge with the crowd around the Rum and Rye saloon.
Funny, he thought while running a hand through his thick black hair. He had a feeling that cold winter nights in a warm, comfortable bed with that foul-tempered hellion might just somehow make it all worthwhile. Maybe.
CHAPTER THREE
Winter turned back and forth in front of the cloudy, cracked mirror. The bridal suite in the Gold River hotel had proven to be a good deal like her old room at the orphanage in St. Louis. It was large enough, but dusty and had a faint musty smell that Winter suspected came from moldy wood and the family of mice she had discovered living in the solitary closet.
However, Ben had insisted the sheets be changed and fresh water brought up for Winter's bath following their afternoon wedding ceremony. The room still had a chill that Winter could not seem to shake. Her bones were stiff and the muscles in her face taut from smiling all afternoon.
Now, as she inspected herself in the mirror's gloomy reflection, she admitted that it was not the room that chilled her, but the uncertainty of what awaited her next. She gasped at the sound of Ben's chair scraping on the hard-wood floor in the outer room, then squared her shoulders and stared at herself firmly in the mirror.
The flickering light from the lamp on the dresser's edge revealed a very pale face that accented the sprinkling of freckles that dotted her cheeks and the bridge of her pert nose. Her lips appeared fuller than usual, more crimson in the lamp's glow. Even her large hazel eyes seemed too big for her face.
"I must get myself under control," she reminded herself softly. She had already been in the bedroom for over an hour. She had been in her nightgown for two-thirds of that time, but had not been able to find the courage to open the door to the adjoining room where her new husband waited.
Ben Barrett had proven to be exactly what his letters had represented; kind, generous, and thoughtful...His appearance lacked the dramatic impact of Blaine Dekker's sensual magnetism but he had a pleasant, honest face that Winter knew immediately she could trust.
It was a strong, dependable face, Winter decided at once. The kind of face that never held secrets or pretended feelings that did not exist. She was most thankful for that. She had her fill of pretended affection and a friendly face that covered a host of evil, devilish thoughts.
Again, as it had for eighteen years, the childish sincere face of an Indian boy rose before Winter's memory. Rising Sun had a sincere face too, she remembered bitterly, but it covered a depraved soul which had plotted her parents' murders even while he cut both their wrists and rubbed their blood together in the traditional manner that he said would make them friends forever.
She wondered why she'd ever believed him. She had grown to realize over the long years since that it was her deep desire for a friend that had led her to become friends with the young Cheyenne boy. Because her parents were missionaries, they had moved too frequently for Winter to develop a lasting friendship with children her own age so when they settled in the Cheyenne country in 1860 and opened their mission school for the Indian children, it was too easy for the shy, awkward little girl to become attached to Rising Sun.
Winter had only to close her eyes and his face appeared before her. She remembered every detail of that face. In the lonely years that passed after her parents brutal deaths, she had lain awake night after night in that awful orphanage in St. Louis remembering every possible detail about Rising Sun.
She remembered the sober, always solemn expression that occupied his thin brown face. She remembered the way his ebony eyes sparkled with laughter when he tried to teach her to shoot a bow and arrow. She remembered the lean, sinewy strength of his muscular body when he showed her how to mount a pony at a dead run. She remembered the shy sweetness of his lips when he'd given her the first kiss either of them experienced.
She remembered everything, she thought bitterly as her eyes narrowed in the mirror's reflection. She had trusted him, more than that she had adored him! And he led that horrible attack that killed her parents and left her alone. She'd often wondered why he'd let her survive, why he had not buried his hatchet in her skull as she saw him do to her mother.
Above all the things Rising Sun had taught her in those sunny, carefree days before the attack, Winter remembered his solemn twelve year voice telling her how important it was for a Cheyenne boy to become a man and take his rightful place among the tribe. Courage, bravery in battle had been drilled into his brain from birth. It was that savage desire to become a man that had led him to destroy her life. She was certain of that.
She was also certain that she would not have a peaceful night's sleep until she'd found him and avenged her parents' murders.
Winter gave herself a mental shake and exhaled slowly. She was here now. She was getting closer to Rising Sun with each new day. But for tonight he'd have to take a back seat in her mind. Tonight she must give solely to her new husband.
The wedding had been surprisingly nice. Ben had hired a local band to play and filled the rough, clapboard church with the last of the summer's flowers.
Winter had been touched by his thoughtfulness, but then in the year she had corresponded with Ben Barrett, she had become convinced that he was truly a thoughtful, considerate man.
The only fly in the ointment in the entire day had been the surprise appearance of Blaine Dekker as Ben's best man. Winter still chilled at the thought of Ben saying that it was all right for Blaine to kiss the bride. Thank God one of his deputies had run into the church at exactly that moment to tell Blaine of a brawl in the Bull's Eye saloon down the street. He'd left at once to break up the fight.
Winter shuddered and rubbed her arms absently. What would she have done if Blaine Dekker had not been distracted, she still wondered nervously. She'd gotten the distinct impression he was no more eager to kiss her than she was to have him kiss her. Still, there had been a mocking gleam in those amazing cobalt eyes when he stared at her for a moment just before his deputy entered the church. It made Winter wonder what he had been thinking.
In the outer room she heard Ben clear his throat and jumped at the sudden sound. Then with one last appraising glance at herself in the mirror, she marched to the bedroom door and opened it.
She saw the appreciative glance Ben gave as she moved into the room and halted before him. His soft brown eyes traveled the length of her slender body slowly, then lifted to lock with her eyes at last.
He cleared his throat again and laughed nervously. "I was beginning to think you'd crawled out the window."
Winter smiled nervously and shook her head. Her shoulder length chestnut mane glimmered in the soft lamp light as she played with her fingers. "Sorry I took so long, Ben," she said hesitantly. "I wanted to look nice for you. I wanted everything to be perfect."
"It is perfect, Winter," Ben assured her, rising to take her into his arms. "Why, you look so beautiful, I-I-I'm almost afraid to touch you for fear you'll break."
"I won't break, Ben," Winter said confidently. His nervousness touched her, made her own uncertainty easier to deal with. For the first time, she actually was glad she'd accepted his marriage proposal. She was certain that Ben Barrett would be good to her and provide a good home for her. What more could a twenty-six year old orphan with no skills except for a little nurse's training ask for?
* * *
An hour later Winter slipped into her robe and padded silently across the chilly floor to the window. Pulling open the curtains, she looked down upon Gold River as she chewed her lip thoughtfully.
Ben snored peacefully in the bed behind her. The room was silent except for his heavy breathing and the sound of Winter's heart pounding dully in her chest. Whatever she'd expected making love to be like, she knew that Ben's awkward, hurried caresses and apologetic kisses left something to be desired.
She told herself it was only because he'd been so long without a woman. And because he was as nervous as she. Still, Winter was deeply disappointed. Her body had just begun to warm to Ben's touch when he'd abruptly mounted her. Within a couple of seconds it was over. She still wasn't sure what had happened, but she was sure it wasn't something she found the least bit enjoyable.
It almost appeared that Ben was in a hurry, as if he couldn't wait for it be finished with. Her dark brows knitted in thought as she stared down onto the garishly lit street.
Her gaze landed on the brightly lit brothel across the way from her window. Dozens of women were in that place at that very moment, doing exactly what she'd been doing only a short time before, she thought curiously. She wondered if they felt this vague gnawing deep inside or the disappointment that burned her throat and filled her eyes with unexpected tears.
Perhaps it would be better later on, she reasoned in the darkness, after she and Ben were better acquainted, more comfortable with each other. Sure, that was all they needed, just more time. Then everything would be fine. Still, a tiny knowing voice in the very depths of her soul told her this scene with Ben would be played out over and over in its entirety in the coming months and that each time she would arise with these same unfulfilled longings and disappointments.
The loud piano music from the brothel across the way drew her attention again. For some reason it brought Blaine Dekker's handsome face into focus. Winter wondered if he made love the same way Ben did; a couple of quick, bone-crunching humps with all his clothes on in the dark.
Or did the handsome lawman go about it more slowly? Did he take all his clothes
off, as she heard the other nurses whispering about their lovers in the hospital in St. Louis. For a brief moment Winter's mind dwelled on the prospect of his lean, muscular body, warm and naked lying atop her own. She wondered if his lips were as warm and sensual as she suspected, if he took the time to appreciate a woman's beauty before plunging himself into her in a mad fit of desire.
She shook her head. How could she dare think such ugly thoughts, she asked herself silently. She glanced guiltily over her shoulder at Ben's sleeping profile. Okay, so he wasn't the lover she'd dared hope he might be. So what? He was kind and honest and thoughtful. She was grateful for that. Besides, what did she know about passion and making love anyway? She'd come into this marriage a virgin. She was proud of that. She'd given her husband the very best she had and she was sure Ben did appreciate that.
So what if he didn't have Blaine Dekker's exotic good looks and blatant sex appeal? There was more to a good marriage than passion. There was trust and warmth and caring. All characteristics that Ben had in abundance; characteristics she was certain were severely lacking in Blaine Dekker.
A match flared on the street below, on the opposite side of the street. Winter's hazel eyes widened with surprise when the momentary glow of the match revealed Blaine's handsome face as he touched the match to the tip of a thin brown cigar.
What on earth could he be doing at two a.m. across the street from her hotel window, she wondered. Was he watching her, she asked herself. And if so, why?
Then, while she stared at him in amazement, Blaine straightened up from his relaxed pose against a street lamp and moved slowly down the street and out of sight.
Winter breathed a sigh of relief and pulled the curtains closed. He was merely taking a break from patrolling the busy street! He had merely paused beneath her window to light his cigar before continuing with his rounds.
She touched her forehead with a firm fingertip and grimaced in the darkness while she climbed back into bed beside her husband. Her nerves must be tied in knots for her to think the handsome marshal was keeping an eye on her. Still, she couldn't deny that initial surge of pleasure when she'd first spotted him and thought he was watching her window.
Winter, ole girl, this altitude is making your brain do strange things. You best be paying attention to what's real and stop imagining what isn't.
She snuggled up to Ben's broad back and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Blaine returned the low whippoorwill call and waited at the end of the dark street. Seconds later a shadowy form moved from the bushes lining the dirt street to stand before him.
"I'm glad you are here, Blaine," the low, husky voice of the Cheyenne woman said.
"I told you I'd be here," Blaine grunted. He glanced around quickly to make certain they were alone, then took the woman's arm and propelled her into the brush where they could not be seen by a random passer by . "Did you doubt my word?"
The woman's facial expression did not change, although her eyes twinkled in the dim light. She made no effort to touch him or come nearer than a couple of feet away, but stood watching him silently for a few seconds.
She was an old woman, in her sixties, yet she was straight and tall. Her long hair was braided into two braids that hung down her back. She wore a brightly colored dress over which she had placed a dark blanket to conceal it from view in the moonlight.
"I knew you would come, Blaine," she said.
"Why did you send for me?" Blaine asked while he glanced around again. "What's so important?''
"The agent, Gordon, has been among the people asking questions."
"What kind of questions?" Blaine asked suspiciously as his eyes narrowed.
"Questions about Rising Sun," was the old woman's soft-spoken reply.
"Rising Sun is dead. He's been dead for years."
The woman nodded in agreement. "This is what Gordon has been told, but I do not think he believes it. It is said he has been sent by a white woman."
Blaine sighed. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, looking away into the distance. "That's true. A woman came here a week ago to marry Ben Barrett. She's the one who sent Gordon to look for Rising Sun."
''Gordon will keep asking questions, Blaine," the old woman said wisely. "If this woman sent him, she will not stop until she has the answer she seeks. It is said her heart is filled with anger. It is said that she will not give up easily."
"Rising Sun is dead!" Blaine snapped harshly. Immediately his face softened and he reached to touch the old woman's lined cheek. "I'm sorry, na'go," he said apologetically with a faint smile. "It's not your fault. I'm just uneasy."
The woman did not speak but waited for him to explain, her sharp eyes studying his handsome face in the dim light.
"The last thing I need right now is for some stupid white woman to start more trouble with the Cheyenne. I've got all I can handle with this Arapaho business. I still haven't been able to figure out how to stop these attacks on the stage lines. I sure don't need a troublesome female meddling in matters that have been dead and buried for years."
The weariness in Blaine's voice made the old woman move closer and place a wrinkled hand on his forearm. "The people are hungry, Blaine. Gordon cheats us. He is not giving us the food and blankets we were promised. The young men are restless, they hear their children cry from hunger. They must do something.
"You must come, Blaine," she added after a pause. "Your grandfather is old and sick. He has chosen you to take his place as chief of the Cheyenne. You must come.
You must take your place on the council."
"No! " Blaine argued fiercely. His handsome face hardened, the dark blue eyes became glittering and cold. "I was banished from the people, na'go. My grandfather himself administered my punishment. Remember?" he asked her bitterly. "Remember how the people watched while my grandfather beat me senseless and then ordered me from the village? I have not forgotten, nor have I forgiven! I will never go back! I am white! I am no longer Cheyenne! Those are my grandfather's words. Have you forgotten so quickly?"
"I have not forgotten, na'," the woman said softly. "I remember well your pain, but it was a long time ago. It is time you forgave and came home to your people. You are needed. Shadow Dancer talks of war with the whites. If you do not come back, he will take your place on the council. Many Cheyenne will die. This is why your grandfather wishes you to return. This is why he wishes your forgiveness."
"Why? Because I've lived among the whites he thinks I can outsmart them?" Blaine asked sarcastically. "He thinks my knowledge of them will give the Cheyenne an advantage in battle?"
"No," the woman disagreed with a slight shake of her head. "Your grandfather knows of your courage and your quick mind. He knows you can lead the people toward peace with the whites. With Shadow Dancer as chief, the Cheyenne will know only more death."
"There is nothing I can do!" Blaine insisted emphatically. "I will do what I can about Gordon, but that is all. What the Cheyenne do is my grandfather's problem, not mine. I wasn't good enough to be Cheyenne years ago when he threw me out. I'm sure as hell not good enough to be Cheyenne now."
"Your mind and your clothes are white, Blaine Dekker," the old woman told him quietly. "But your heart is Cheyenne. There will be a time when you must accept your birthright. There will be a time when you can no longer deny your Cheyenne blood, a time when you must take your place as chief of your people."
"No! Never!"
A tiny smile curled the old woman's face as she turned away. She had gone only a short distance when his voice reached her, turning her back.
"Na' go, go in peace, " he said in a strangely gentle voice.
The old woman nodded and glided noiselessly into the brush. Blaine did not hear the Indian pony leave for the hooves were wrapped with cloth to muffle the sound, but he knew she had gone nonetheless.
He turned and retraced his steps down the long dusty street of Gold River until he reached the lamp post across the street from Winter's hotel room. Leaning against the post, he lit another cigar and drew on it deeply. He scanned the street, then satisfied that things were quiet for the moment, let his thoughts go back to the conversation with the old woman.
It wasn't bad enough that Winter Bradley...Barrett, he corrected himself automatically, was looking for revenge on some long dead Cheyenne warrior. He had to find some way to keep the Cheyenne and Arapaho from declaring open war on Marsh Gordon. But first he had to prove the Indian agent was really guilty of the things Half Moon accused him of. That would not be easy. Gordon was a slippery fellow. He covered his tracks well, but there had to be some way of uncovering his carefully concealed web of deceit.
Otherwise, this entire country could well be bathed in blood. And there had been quite enough of that already.
The other thing Half Moon spoke of brought a dry chuckle to his lips. Him, chief of the Cheyenne nation! The very thought was ludicrous! He hadn't set foot on Cheyenne land or worn Cheyenne clothing for almost twenty years. He could just see the look on Shadow Dancer's face if he rode into the village to claim his birthright.
He chuckled again and exhaled a plume of gray smoke toward the star filled sky. His cousin would not take such an action lightly, he thought with a grim smile.
Funny, he reminded himself as his face sobered. He had referred to Shadow Dancer as his cousin. He hadn't thought of him in that way in years. He had not thought of himself as Cheyenne in years either, but that didn't stop people like Winter Barrett from throwing it in his face at every opportunity.
No, he told himself resolutely. He was no longer Cheyenne. Two Feathers would just have to find some other way to solve his problems. He had enough problems of his own to worry about.
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