chapter Thirteen
Iron Knife braved the raw wind to ride to the rendezvous point that night where Todd Shaw waited.
Todd hailed him. “You’re loco to want to meet me this close to Denver! With all the trouble, if any of the miners or cowboys spotted you, you’d get lynched!”
“I’ve lived my whole life on the edge of danger.” Iron Knife shook hands warmly. “I don’t worry about little things anymore.”
Tomorrow was the first day of March, and it was cold tonight, sleet driving against his face now like small knives. “I thought you might have heard something from Summer.”
Todd shook his head. “Not a word.” Then he seemed to see Iron Knife’s expression. “But that isn’t anything to worry about; with all the Indian trouble, half the time the mail isn’t getting through, nor the telegrams either.”
“Of course”—Iron Knife nodded—“she’s no doubt sent me messages and they aren’t getting here.”
“And remember, the war’s still going on; that may have a little to do with the mail mix-up.” Todd seemed almost pathetically eager to offer excuses.
“Is no mail getting through?”
Todd looked away, and the wind ruffled his brown hair. “Well, yes,” he admitted.
“I am not even sure Summer arrived in Boston,” Iron Knife said, “suppose—”
“Oh, she arrived safe and sound,” Todd blurted, “the note I got from Mother. . . .”
“Yes?”
Todd shrugged as if it were of no consequence. “Mother’s letter merely said Summer’s mother was still hanging on, although no one could understand what kept her alive, and that Silas is quite taken with the children, particularly Lance.”
“I see,” Iron Knife said glumly. Then he brightened. “Of course she can’t return, she is caring for her mother.”
“Yes”—Todd smiled—“Summer was always a dutiful daughter; she’ll feel she has to stay until her mother dies.”
Iron Knife frowned and pulled his buffalo robe closer around his broad shoulders. “When the war between blue and gray is over, the long knives will give full attention to fighting Indians. It will be a bad time for my people.”
“I know. I wish I could help, but emotions are running high in Denver and the mining camps.”
Iron Knife’s Appaloosa stallion stomped its hooves and shifted its weight, eager to be out of the cold wind and sleet. “You’re a good friend to the Indians, Todd Shaw. Would you do me a favor?”
“Certainly, friend, anything.”
He thought about her, pictured her heart-shaped face and big blue eyes in his mind. “Would you send my Summer Sky a message over the singing wires, telling her I miss her and want her back?”
Todd nodded. “That I will do.”
“I will check with you in several weeks to get her answer. In the meantime, if there’s a letter or wire, you’ll send word?”
“You know I will.”
“Until then.” They shook hands, and Iron Knife turned his horse and sadly headed back to where some of his tribe was camped, hidden away in a valley, hoping the soldiers would not find them until the spring when the ponies were fat and strong on new grass. Chivington may have thought he was solving the Indian problem with his attack at Sand Creek; instead, he had fanned a small flame that now blazed across the frontier as a full-fledged Indian war.
It was unusually cold for the first day of March, Summer thought, staring out at the sleet hitting like pebbles against the windows. The only comfort in this dreary house was that her twin brother, David, had managed to get home yesterday for a short leave. Now, as she went down to join him for breakfast, she wasn’t feeling too well, but she was so glad he had come.
Joining them at the table was her sister, Angela, and little Lance. The other two children were having their breakfast in the nursery with their adoring nurse, Mrs. O’Malley.
They looked up as she entered, sensitive, blond David half-rising from his chair. “We were wondering where you were.”
“Don’t get up.” She motioned him back down. “I almost didn’t come at all; I’m not feeling very well, I’m afraid.”
David frowned. “A lot of grippe and pneumonia going around. Hope I haven’t brought you some terrible disease from the hospitals.”
“How is it going?” Summer picked up her fine linen napkin and spread it across the lap of her blue dress. Angela was feeding that elderly black cat from the table, but Summer pretended not to notice. How old was Angela now? Fifteen? Sixteen? She was going to be a breathtaking beauty.
“I don’t even want to talk about it.” David shook his head.
“That bad?”
“There’s a poet, Walt Whitman, helping in the wards; he’s a very compassionate man. Sis, we’re losing more men to disease and infection than killed on the battlefield.” David looked weary and stressed.
Summer picked up her ornate silver fork and looked around. “Where’s Father?”
“Already gone to the office, something about selling supplies to the army,” Angela said. “I wish he had waited, now I’ll have to wait for Flannigan to bring the sleigh back to get me to school.”
Just looking at the omelet made Summer queasy. She reached to butter Lance’s toast. “The war, the war. We never hear of anything else. Will it never end?”
“It’s all but over,” David assured her, “another month or two at the most.”
Summer watched her son eat. It was amazing how easily Lance had fallen into the roll of privileged child. She noticed he was watching the way David handled a fork, attempted to emulate him. “Have you heard from Austin?”
“He’s somewhere deep in the South, serving with his friend, Custer. Remember meeting him?”
Summer searched her memory. “Oh, yes, that brash, handsome cadet from West Point who came to the Shaws’ costume ball before the war.”
David sipped his coffee. “Custer is the youngest general in the army and extremely ambitious. For that reason, you can expect him to be in the thick of the final battles and Austin right along with him.”
“So, David, what are your plans when this war ends?”
David toyed with his food. “I don’t know; maybe go west. The army will always need medical personnel and orderlies. Maybe I can do a little to ease pain and suffering.”
“Father will be so upset; he expects you to take over his empire.”
“I don’t want his damned empire!” David threw his napkin down.
“Well, I do!” Angela said. “Why does no one even consider me?”
“You?” Summer looked at her, surprised. David also stared.
“Yes, me!” Angela snapped. “Everyone overlooks me because I’m a girl, but I’ve been watching and listening when Father talks business. I’m bored to death with Miss Priddy’s Academy where the girls prattle of clothes and needlepoint. I think I could someday take over his empire and run it as well as he does!”
Summer took a really good look at her younger sister. It was amazing that Angela had Priscilla’s beauty but none of her softness. The cold blue of her eyes and the grim line of her mouth were very much like Silas’. “Perhaps you can, dear; after all, neither of us want it, and there will come a time when women will come into their own and maybe even vote.”
In the silence, the cat meowed, and the sleet beat against the windowpane. Lance looked from one to another.
“I wish I could go back west,” Summer said, feeling suddenly lonely for her man. She pushed her plate away and stared at the pink and burgundy roses that bloomed eternally around the rim of the china. “If only we knew how long Mother was going to last—”
“I know,” Angela said, and stroked the black cat.
“Don’t be silly,” Summer said, “how could you know? No one knows—not even Dr. Morgan.”
Angela’s pale eyes stared out the window. “She will last until the first week of April.”
A shiver went up Summer’s back at the certainty in her sister’s tone. “How can you possibly know that?”
“I just know; that’s all.” Angela got up from her chair, picked up the cat and left the dining room.
Summer and David stared at each other wordlessly. Generations ago, a Blackledge had been hanged in the Salem witch trials, and Summer was not all that sure about that ancestor’s innocence. There was a secret about their younger sister that even Angela couldn’t know, a secret David had kept since he was a small boy, a secret he had finally told Summer that night of the Shaws’ 1858 New Year’s Eve ball.
Even as she looked into David’s eyes, she remembered that time in the carriage when he had told Summer what he had witnessed one long-ago night when he was only nine years old and everyone else in the house was asleep.
David had said the noise, the screams and cursing, had awakened him as Silas tore Priscilla’s door down. David had run into Mother’s room to see Silas brutally raping Priscilla in a fit of whitehot rage. Angela had been the result of that terrible night. Had the violence of her conception affected their strange younger sister’s personality, or was it only the Blackledge blood coming through?
Even now as she sat at the table, remembering, Summer wondered what had happened to have sent Silas into such a murderous rage that long-ago night? She supposed they would never know; Summer could only wonder. . . .
“Sis, are you all right?”
She blinked, and realized she sat at the breakfast table with little Lance and her brother looking at her anxiously. “I—I’m all right, just not feeling very well; that’s all.”
“You go on up and lie down, then,” David said gently as he got up and helped her from her chair. “Lance and I will find something to do; maybe go sledding.”
“Thank you.” She was feeling so nauseated, she was afraid she was going to lose what little breakfast she had eaten. The quibbling at the table had upset her more than she wanted to admit. Summer had a secret of her own, yet she dared not tell it yet until she decided what to do.
She heard the front door open and close as she went down the hall. The pompous butler came from the door. “Was that the mail, Evans?”
“Yes, mum.”
She hardly dared hope. “Was there—was there something for me?”
“Now, Miss Summer, if there had been, wouldn’t I have told you?” His tone was coldly polite.
She felt like a fool. “Of course. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that you weren’t efficient and doing your job.”
His nose went a bit higher in the air. “In England, the gentry never apologizes to the servants, mum.”
Was she being chided by this pompous butler who always seemed to be reminding her he knew how Father had made his money? She felt an angry flush rise to her cheeks.
The nausea was growing. Lifting her skirts, Summer raced up the stairs and barely made it in time. Afterward, she was so weak, she could hardly wet a cloth with cold water and lie down on her bed, staring out at the raw weather. What was she going to do? Even if Priscilla died, or got well, Summer wasn’t in any shape to begin a long journey back to the West.
Besides that, she had to face the facts that she had heard nothing from Iron Knife, no answer to her letters. Could he be dead in all this Indian war? Or had he decided that their union was a mistake and didn’t want her back?
What to do? She stared out the window, trying to make some plans. Perhaps she could send a letter or wire to Todd and ask him if he’d heard anything, ask him to inquire after Iron Knife’s health and whereabouts. Yes, that’s what she would do.
Summer rested awhile, wrote the wire, and went downstairs. She’d give the telegram to David, let him take care of it if he was going to town this morning. She would tell her brother her secret; but she wasn’t sure what he could do to help. “Where’s David?”
Evans said, “He took Master Lance and Storm sledding.”
“Oh, yes, of course. And the baby?”
“I believe Mrs. O’Malley and the servants have her in the kitchen playing with her.” His tone gave her to know he did not approve of such camaraderie between servants and employers. “If you don’t mind, miss, I was just on my way up to town to pick up supplies.”
“Oh, good. I won’t be putting you to any trouble, then, if I ask you to send this wire?”
“A wire? Of course not, miss, I am employed to serve.”
She gave it to him, then went back upstairs to her mother’s room.
The little music box tinkled out its melody as Summer went in.
The new little maid, Nancy, said, “I’m sorry for playing it, miss, but it’s the only thing that seems to quiet her.”
“That’s all right.” She wondered what had happened to that last maid; what was her name? Oh, yes, Sassy. The room seemed so cheerless and gloomy. “I wish we had some roses; it would make it seem more like spring.”
“Hard to come by in this weather.” The maid moved the suitcase as she dusted around the lamp table.
Priscilla’s eyes opened, but she didn’t seem to see anyone. Her gaze fastened on the suitcase, and she smiled ever so slightly and dropped back off to sleep.
What was it about a piece of luggage that triggered her mother’s emotions, even when the woman’s mind was so far gone that she packed it with an odd collection of miscellaneous junk? Summer was suddenly very weary of this vigil and wished it were all over so everyone could get on with their lives. Immediately, she felt guilty for wanting her mother dead, this long ordeal ended. What was it that was holding Priscilla here? Perhaps she might be waiting for spring, to sit in her garden and smell the roses one more time.
Summer went to the window and looked at her mother’s dead garden with its fountains and ornate benches buried under ice. She remembered now there was a particular bush that her mother favored, a bush of yellow roses. How many times as a child had she seen her mother sitting on the grass by that bush, an armful of the yellow blossoms in her arms, her face buried in them to inhale their slightest scent? Once, when she had looked up at the sound of her daughter’s step, little Summer had noticed that Priscilla was weeping. Perhaps her mother had pricked her finger on a thorn; what other reason could there be?
Now the skeleton of that bush stood out stark against the winter snow below the window. . . .
“Miss Summer, I’m havin’ a bit of tea and muffin, would you care for some?”
Summer turned away from the window and the sight of the dead garden below. The tea looked inviting, but then she got a whiff of the cheese and jam on the plate with the muffin. She swallowed hard, feeling ill again. “I—I think not, Nancy, but thanks for asking.”
Her nausea returned. The scent of the food seemed almost overpowering. Summer turned and fled the room, headed for her bathroom. There was nothing to throw up, but she retched anyway for a long moment.
She got another cold cloth and collapsed on her bed. That gave her a little relief, but only a little. She was so weak from not being able to keep anything down, yet she moaned aloud at the thought of food and mopped her perspiring face again. Oh, Lord, how could she deal with this added complication? What was she going to do now?
Silas reread the message the butler had just brought to his office, then tore it up. So now Summer was trying to reach that damned redskin by sending wires to Todd in Denver. Silas smiled and drummed his fingers on his desk. She would get an answer, all right, supposedly from Todd telling her he’d had no contact with that half-breed. Maybe after a few months, Summer would decide that damned Indian didn’t care about her, get sensible and decide to stay in Boston where she belonged. Silas was getting quite attached to Summer’s children, Lance and little Garnet. He had been teaching them English, and the other things civilized children needed to know. He didn’t want them raised as savages.
Silas got up and walked around the polished desk, looking about his big office. He owned shipping and manufacturing, importing, telegraph and even some petroleum shares that might someday be worth something if anyone could figure out some use for that oil; certainly greasing buggy wheels wasn’t much of a market. What good did it do to build an empire if he was going to lose his two oldest children and have no one to pass his money and power to? There was always Angela; but of course, she was just a girl, and women had no power and no business sense. He’d rather leave it all to a male heir.
What he needed to do was figure out a way to keep Summer in Boston permanently so he could raise little Lance. Summer wasn’t feeling well lately, and in this cold, she seldom went uptown. So far, every message coming and going to Colorado had been intercepted, and he meant to keep it that way. Silas also might send fake letters and telegrams. After all, he had friends in high places.
If she didn’t hear from that damned redskin, she’d forget about him or decide he was dead or didn’t want her back. Besides, she wasn’t really married to that half-breed, not by white, legal standards. Could he marry her off to someone else? Silas paused by the window, tucked his hands behind him and stared out at Boston Harbor with his ships riding at anchor on the cold, gray water. Austin Shaw had loved Summer since she was a little girl, but she seemed to have no interest in him. Well, if not Austin, who else might appeal to her? It needed to be someone rich, from a fine family and with good business connections. What other man did he know he might introduce to his daughter? What about Beau St. Claire?
Silas smiled, pleased with himself. Now there was a blond, handsome man in his late thirties, from the St. Claire plantation family of Georgia. Beau had no loyalties or interest in the Civil War or who won it; he was only interested in what profits could be made from it. A man after Silas Van Schuyler’s own heart. Beau should be back in town soon, and Silas would invite him over to talk business so Summer could meet him. Smiling at his own cleverness, Silas sat down to write the fake message he would send.
Summer was resting when she heard the door chimes and the pompous butler’s step on the stairs. Perhaps it was a wire from Iron Knife! She opened her bedroom door. “Yes?”
“Mr. Austin Shaw is waiting in the music room, Miss Summer.”
“Oh.” She felt mixed emotions about her old fiance. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute, and you may serve tea there, Evans.”
He nodded and left while she hurriedly splashed water on her face, then pinched her cheeks to make them rosy before descending the stairs.
Austin. He was her brother’s best friend and much like a big brother to her. Everyone had expected her to marry the boy next door. Good, dependable Austin from a background exactly like her own.
Taking a deep breath, she went into the music room holding out both hands. “Austin! So good to see you!”
“Summer, I’ve missed you.” He stood there before the fire in his blue lieutenant’s uniform, smoking his pipe. Now he took her hands in both of his, and his hazel eyes betrayed the fact that his feelings for her hadn’t changed.
“Sit down. Evans is bringing tea.” She gestured toward the sofa and sat down herself, looking around. The music room was her favorite with its pastel Chinese rugs, grand piano and the big harp near the fireplace. “You’re looking well; so fit and trim.”
“It’s a hard life in the army; in the saddle a lot.” He knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fireplace, slipped it in his pocket and joined her on the sofa as the snooty butler carried in the ornate silver service.
“Shall I pour, miss?”
“No”—Summer waved him away—“thank you, Evans.”
The butler left, and she poured and served, genuinely glad to see her old boyfriend.
“Are you all right, Summer?”
She didn’t look at him as she sipped the strong tea and nibbled a delicate scone. “It’s very difficult, waiting for Mother . . . well, you know.”
“I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?” His voice and expression were so warm, so genuine. Austin Shaw was a thoroughly decent, civilized human being.
Summer shook her head. “There’s nothing anyone can do.” It occurred to her that she didn’t know if she was speaking of her mother or about her personal life. She looked around the rich furnishings, remembering happier times, parties here in this room. Once she had thought it worth while to throw it all away for a big, virile half-breed; now she wasn’t so sure. “Will you be in town long?”
He shook his head and put his cup down. “Unfortunately, I had to use Father’s considerable influence, move heaven and earth to make this quick trip.”
The war; always the war. “Will it ever end?”
He nodded. “The South is in its death throes now. Of course, Custer is in the thick of it; means to be there for the kill; great publicity, you know.”
She finished her tea, then set it down with a sigh.
“I’m sorry I won’t be here for you when your mother. . . .”
The door opened slowly, and three small heads peeked around it.
Austin grinned with genuine warmth. “Hello! And who’s this?”
Summer waved them in. “Children, come meet my old friend; this is Mr. Shaw.”
Storm and little Garnet advanced slowly, staring at him.
“Bluecoat!” Storm’s dark face frowned with disapproval, but Lance walked right up and held out his hand.
“How do you do, sir, I’m happy to make your acquaintance.”
Austin shook hands with him, then looked at Summer questioningly.
“Father’s been coaching him,” she said, “turning him into a regular little Boston gentleman. The others, well, we were at Sand Creek; the blue uniforms, you know.”
Instantly, his kind face showed concern, and he smiled at the children. “I’m your mother’s good friend,” he said, “and I will always be yours, too.”
The three of them looked at him gravely. Summer translated his words into Cheyenne.
Storm said, “Does the white soldier speak true, Mother?”
Summer nodded. “You can always trust him; I promise.”
Now the three turned their attention to the cookies and scones on the ornate silver tray.
Lance said, “May we please have a cookie?”
“You may,” Summer said, and held out the ornate tray.
The three took cookies, then started to leave.
Lance turned, came back, and held out a small hand. “Thank you for coming, sir. It was nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Austin said, and shook it gravely.
Summer watched her three children leave the room, her heart bursting with love and pride.
“They’re fine children,” Austin murmured, “you and Iron Knife must be very proud. I wish. . . .” He didn’t finish.
She looked down at her hands in her lap.
“Are you happy, Summer? You don’t look at all well.”
Why had he asked? They had known each other since childhood. He knew her so well; did he sense something was wrong? She longed to pour out her heartbreak at discovering about the other woman, about how difficult and dangerous life was on the frontier, how she had heard nothing from Iron Knife. But it did not seem loyal to her man, and besides, she was proud. “Yes, I—I’m happy.”
The big clock in the hall began to boom the hour, and Austin pulled out his pocket watch, looked at it, and sighed. “I’ve got a train to catch. How I wish I could stay.” He stood up.
“Must you go so soon?” She stood up and took both his hands in hers. “Frankly, it’s been lonely here.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be in town again,” he said, looking down at her, “you may be gone before I return.”
“Perhaps not.”
“If you should ever need anything. . . .” He paused, and she knew he was fighting an urge to kiss her.
She made it easy for him by letting go of his hands, stepping away from him. He was so decent, so ethical. “I know I can always count on you, Austin.”
He cleared his throat as he ran his hand through his brown hair. “Iron Knife is a lucky man; tell him I said so.”
“Thank you, Austin; I’ll pray for your safety.”
He nodded and blinked rapidly. “Goodbye now.” He turned and hurried from the music room.
Summer stood looking after him long after she had heard the front door close. Austin Shaw would marry her in a minute and help raise her children. It would be a safe, respectable and predictable union.
She had traded that future for the wild passion of a virile dog soldier’s arms. Had she made the right choice? She didn’t know herself.