Reckless Desire (32 page)

I remembered the day Blackie had learned to ride a horse, his little legs clinging to the sides of one of one of our old mares, his chubby little hands grasping the reins as Shadow led the horse around the corral, eyes shining with pride.

Shadow had taught Blackie how to hunt and fish, how to read the signs of the seasons, to track, to speak the language of the People.

He had been such a sweet child, our Blackie. He had been but two years old when he brought home the first in a long line of injured animals. He had come into the kitchen that day with a small bird clutched to his chest. Together we had splinted the bird’s broken wing. Blackie had fed it and cared for it with only a little help from me, and he had been overjoyed when the bird’s wing healed and it flew away. He had always been such a happy child, always smiling and laughing, a joy to be around. He had seen beauty where others saw only ugliness, hope where others saw despair.

My memories brought tears to my eyes and I began to weep softly. I could not bear it if my son died. I had lost my firstborn son. Surely God would not take my baby.

Kneeling beside Blackie’s bed, I began to pray, pleading with the Lord to spare my child, promising to try to lead a better life if only He would let Blackie live.

I fell asleep on my knees. When I awoke, it was almost dawn. Blackie was still asleep, his breathing shallow and uneven. He had kicked the covers off the bed and I replaced them, noting that his fever was still high.

Going into the kitchen, I filled the kettle with water, took a canister of herb tea from the cupboard. Blackie couldn’t swallow anything solid, so I tried to get as much liquid into him as I could, even though it was painful for him to swallow.

Glancing out the window, I saw Shadow standing outside. He was naked save for loincloth and moccasins. His hair, long and black, fell to his waist. A single white eagle feather had been tied in his hair. There were streaks of black paint on his face and chest. His arms, bronze and thick with muscle, were lifted toward the sky in prayer. A small fire burned at his feet, and as I watched, he sprinkled a handful of sacred yellow pollen into the flame, and then raised his arms over his head again.

He was praying to Man Above in the old and ancient way, and I felt a shiver run down my spine as he called upon the gods of the Cheyenne. His voice, deep and filled with pleading, drifted through the half-open window.

“Hear me, Man Above, accept my offering and heal my son.”

Again he sprinkled a handful of pollen into the fire, and this time the flames exploded upward like many-colored tongues licking at the sky. And then with great deliberation Shadow took a knife and raked the blade across his chest. A thin ribbon of red oozed from the shallow gash in his flesh.

“Hear me, Man Above,” he cried again. “Accept my pain and heal my son.”

A wordless cry erupted from Shadow’s lips as he again raised his arms toward heaven, and at that moment the sun climbed over the distant mountains, splashing the clear skies with all the colors of the rainbow.

My breath caught in my throat at the scene before me. Shadow stood straight and tall, like a statue carved from bronze, and behind him the sky turned from red to orange to gold.

Shadow stood there for perhaps another twenty minutes, and I stood watching him, wanting to imprint his image on my mind forevermore.

Slowly Shadow lowered his arms. Turning his head, he saw me standing at the window. His eyes met mine, and I knew somehow that everything would be all right.

Miraculously, Blackie began to get better that very morning. By midafternoon his fever was dropping, and by the following day it was almost normal.

Never again did I doubt the power of prayer. In my heart I knew that my God and Shadow’s were the same God, yet I could not help feeling that, in some mysterious way, our prayers had been stronger and more persuasive because they had been offered both to the God of the white man and that of the Indian.

Two weeks after the disease had run its course, everyone in the valley gathered at the church for a special memorial service. There were tears of sorrow for those who had passed away, and fervent prayers of thanksgiving for those who had been spared. I sat between Blackie and Shadow, my heart overflowing with gratitude. Hawk and Victoria were there too, the twins between them, and Pa and Rebecca.

It was the most spiritual service I had ever attended. The Reverend Brighton’s sermon was lovely and inspiring. He offered consolation to the bereaved, assuring them that they would see their loved ones again, that those who had passed on were safe in the arms of God. They were not lost, only waiting in another sphere. And he spoke to those who had survived, admonishing them, lovingly, to cherish life and to spend it in service and love of others. He commended those who had labored in behalf of the sick, and stated that Dr. Henderson, Dr. Cole, and Blackie Kincaid were heroes in every sense of the word.

I could not have agreed more.

Following the service, we all went to Hawk’s house for dinner. Victoria and I were setting the table when her pains began. A few minutes later her water broke, and dinner was forgotten.

The men kept an eye on the twins while Rebecca and I sat with Victoria. Hawk paced the house restlessly, peering into the bedroom time after time to see how things were going. He held Vickie’s hand when the contractions began to come harder, encouraging her to push, assuring her that he loved her, that everything would be all right.

After only three hours of relatively easy labor, my granddaughter entered the world. It was a tender moment when Hawk caught his daughter in his hands. Rebecca went out to announce the birth, while I washed the newest member of our family and wrapped the tiny infant in a blanket. Hawk was beaming with pride as he showed off his daughter to the rest of the family.

“She sure is small,” Blackie remarked. “Cute, though.”

“She’s beautiful,” Pa said. Gently he stroked the baby’s downy cheek with one large, calloused finger. “Pretty as an angel.”

“What are you going to name her?” Rebecca asked.

“Amanda Marie,” Hawk said, smiling down at his daughter.

We all agreed it was a lovely name for a lovely child, and then we all left the bedroom so Vickie could nurse the baby and get some sleep.

In the parlor, Hawk produced a bottle of wine he had been saving for a special occasion, and we all toasted Amanda’s birth and good health.

“I’m a happy man,” Pa said jovially. He glanced around the room, his smile enormous. “I’ve got me a wonderful wife, a lovely daughter, a fine son-in-law, and enough grandkids and great-grandkids to make any man proud.”

I gave my father a playful punch on the arm. “A fine son-in-law indeed,” I teased. “I remember when you said you’d rather see me dead than married to an Indian.”

Pa nodded ruefully. “Too true,” he admitted. “But you could hardly blame me.”

That was true, too. It had been Indians who had killed Pa’s parents, a sister, and two brothers. Pa had been left for dead, and would likely have died of starvation and exposure if an old mountain man hadn’t found him wandering around the charred remains of his family’s wagon. Pa had stayed with the mountain man until he was sixteen, and then set out on his own.

Pa grinned at Shadow. “I hated all Indians for a lot of years for what they did to my family.”

Shadow returned Pa’s grin with one of his own. “I remember. But that was a long time ago.”

Pa nodded. “Long ago,” he agreed, smiling fondly at Shadow. “I know now that my girl couldn’t have found a better husband anywhere, red or white. I’m proud to call you son.” Pa smiled at each of us in turn. “Yessir,” he said again. “I’m a happy man.”

I woke from a sound sleep as Shadow slipped out of bed. Someone was banging on our front door, and I felt a cold chill tiptoe down my spine. Only trouble came knocking in the dark hours just before dawn. Good news could wait until morning.

I followed Shadow into the parlor, watched with trepidation as he reached for the rifle over the fireplace before he unlatched the front door.

Rebecca stood on the step in her nightgown and a robe. Her hair hung in a long braid over her shoulder. Her face was white and stained with tears.

“It’s Sam,” she said in a choked whisper.

My hand went to my throat. “Pa?”

“He’s gone, Hannah,” Rebecca said, and burst into tears.

Shadow placed an arm around Rebecca’s shoulders and led her into the parlor. I lit a lamp and we sat on the sofa beside her, waiting for her tears to subside so she could speak.

Slowly Rebecca shook her head. “It was so sudden. We were in bed when he sat up complaining of a pain in his chest. I was going after the doctor when Sam called my name. When I reached his side, he was gone.” Rebecca looked at me, her eyes welling with tears. “I didn’t even have time to tell him how much I loved him.”

I took Rebecca’s hand in mine. “He knew that,” I assured her. “Pa often said how glad he was that he found you, and how much he loved you.” I choked back a sob. “We should be glad he went quick and didn’t have to suffer. You know how Pa hated being sick in bed.”

“Oh, Hannah,” Rebecca wailed. “What will I do without him?”

I couldn’t speak. Instead I put my arms around her and we wept together, our tears mingling as we pressed our cheeks together.

I couldn’t believe it. My father was gone. Once before I had thought my father was dead. It had been back in the spring of 1876. Our homestead had been attacked by Indians heading for a rendezvous with Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull at the Little Big Horn. My mother had been killed that day, and my father and I were facing certain death when Shadow arrived. He had bargained for our freedom with the attacking Indians, but the war leader had refused to let Pa go. I had not wanted to leave my father’s side because I knew I would never see him again, but Pa had practically shoved me out the door to where Shadow waited to take me to safety.

In my mind’s eye I could see Shadow as he had looked that day so long ago. I had not recognized him at first. His face and chest had been hideously streaked with broad slashes of vermillion. A single white eagle feather had adorned his long black hair. A black wolfskin clout had covered his loins; moccasins beaded in red and black had hugged his feet. It was only when he spoke that I had recognized him.

I had hated Shadow for the first and only time that fateful day, hated him because he was Indian, hated him because my mother was dead and my father was going to be killed and he couldn’t do anything about it. And even as I had hated him, I loved him.

Looking at Shadow now, I knew that the love I had felt for him then was as nothing compared to the love we now shared. I remembered my surprise when we reached the Rosebud Reservation in the autumn of 1884 and found my father living there among the Indians. It had been like a miracle. I had thought my father long dead, yet there he was, alive and well, living with people he had once despised.

I looked into Rebecca’s tear-stained face and knew there would be no miracles this time.

We sat there for a long time, too numb to speak. I remembered how I had adored my father when I had been a little girl. He had seemed bigger than life then, tall and strong and wise, able to solve all my problems with a hug and a kiss. Like all little girls, I had dreamed of marrying my father when I grew up. As I grew older, I longed to marry a man who possessed the same fine qualities I had admired in Pa.

“At least he got to see Amanda Marie,” Rebecca said after a while.

“He lived a good life,” Shadow remarked. “He was a man of honor. I was proud to know him, to be a part of his family.” Shadow smiled down at me. “Do you remember the time my leg was infected and your father wanted to cut it off?”

I nodded. “I remember.”

“Tell me,” Rebecca said.

“It was just before the Indian wars started,” I began. “There had been several raids on homesteads by the Sioux and Cheyenne. Shadow and I were going to run away and get married, but before he could come for me, a bunch of hotheaded Cheyenne warriors killed one of our neighbors and kidnapped his little girl. Shadow tried to persuade the young men not to fight, but they were determined, and when he realized he couldn’t stop them, he left the village to warn us. Six white men found him riding alone, and they dragged him off his horse and did some terrible things to him. One of the men used a knife on Shadow’s leg, and then they left him for dead. Shadow managed to make his way to our place and my mother treated his wounds, but the cut in his leg became badly infected. Pa wanted to amputate Shadow’s leg before the infection spread any farther, but Shadow had made me promise not to let that happen. Pa was furious when Shadow refused to let Pa do what he felt was right.”

Rebecca smiled a sad little smile. “He did have a temper, didn’t he?”

“I’ll say. Fortunately, we were able to get a Cheyenne medicine man to come to our house and he saved Shadow’s leg.”

A short time later Shadow made a pot of strong coffee and we sat up the rest of the night reminiscing about Pa, remembering the good times we had shared.

There were more tears in the morning when Blackie learned that his grandfather had passed away in the night. Shadow rode over to tell Hawk and Vickie the bad news and to bring them to our place.

Later, when the family was together, we all drove to Pa’s house. Rebecca and I dressed Pa in his good Sunday suit and combed his hair, then Shadow and Hawk carried his body outside and placed it in the back of Pa’s wagon and we took the body into town to the mortuary. The funeral was set for the following afternoon.

Nearly everyone in the valley turned out for Pa’s funeral. There weren’t enough seats to accommodate the crowd of mourners and many had to stand outside the church.

Sitting through the funeral was one of the hardest things I had ever done. The Reverend Brighton delivered a glowing eulogy, extolling the many fine qualities of Samuel Obediah Kincaid, telling how Pa had been one of the first settlers in Bear Valley back in 1865, how he had lost his first homestead and his first wife during the Indian wars in 1875, and how he had come back to Bear Valley in the summer of 1885 to start again. The reverend praised Pa for being a wonderful family man, survived by his daughter and son-in-law, three grandchildren, three great-grandchildren, and his wife, Rebecca.