Chapter Fourteen
The days were passing slowly for Summer at the Van Schuyler mansion. Perhaps it was the bad weather, she thought, staring out the window of her mother’s bedroom, or was it only that the whole family was so very weary of waiting for Priscilla to die so they could all get on with their lives?
She felt guilty as the thought crossed her mind. Summer turned from staring out at the falling snow and went to her mother’s bedside. Priscilla stirred restlessly, opened her eyes and looked up at her vacantly.
“Mother?” Summer forced herself into a cheery exterior. “How are you this morning?”
Priscilla looked at her blankly, then turned her head so that she could see the carpetbag that stood packed by the door. She seemed to sigh with relief, and Summer wondered again what it was about the packed luggage that pleased her. Where could she be thinking she might be going when Priscilla was so frail, she couldn’t even get out of bed? Nothing had been heard of Shawn O’Bannion, and maybe it was just as well, Summer thought. It had been a romantic impulse on her part to try to reach him. Maybe he hadn’t gotten the message or maybe he was dead. Or perhaps after more than a quarter of a century, he had gone on with his life and didn’t remember or care about Priscilla Blackledge Van Schuyler.
Now Priscilla turned her wan face to stare out the window. “Snow,” she whispered so softly that Summer had to strain to hear her, “we’ll be cold walking in the snow.”
Summer started to say that Priscilla was so weak, she wasn’t even going downstairs, much less out into the snow, but there was no point in upsetting this pale, dying wraith. Who on earth was she planning to walk through the snow with?
“Mother,” Summer whispered and patted her thin shoulder, “it won’t be cold, we’ll bundle you up in furs so you can walk in the snow all you want.”
Once again, Priscilla stared at her blankly. It was obvious she had no idea who Summer was. “. . . can’t go yet,” she whispered with just a faint shake of her head, “can’t go yet . . . waiting. . . .”
“For what?” Summer said, a bit out of sorts, but Priscilla had already closed her eyes and drifted back off to sleep. Summer collapsed on a chair. It was difficult enough dealing with a mother who no longer recognized her most of the time, but the fact that she’d had no reply to her letters to Iron Knife kept her sleepless with worry night after night. The wire she’d gotten from Todd hinted that maybe Iron Knife seemed no longer interested in whether she returned or not. The stress of that and this dreary existence here in Boston was no doubt the reason Summer felt so poorly. She didn’t want to even think about, much less face, the real reason.
Tonight, she had promised Father she would join him for dinner with some business associate, Beauregard St. Claire. She had tried to beg off, claiming weariness, but Silas Van Schuyler was used to getting what he wanted.
Well, she could be nice for a couple of hours to some pompous old goat if it was that important to Father. After all, he had pointed out, she owed him some respect and obligation.
Priscilla moved restlessly, and without thinking, Summer reached to wind up the little music box, then opened it on the pillow by Priscilla’s head.
. . . ’Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone, all her lovely companions are faded and gone. . . .
Priscilla smiled in her sleep, and Summer wondered what her mother dreamt of? There was an open book lying on the nightstand. Summer picked it up. The book wasn’t that old, but it was well-worn. It must be one of Priscilla’s favorites. Poetry. Summer’s gaze swept over the print. Yes, she knew this poem: Maude Muller, by John Greenleaf Whittier. It was a sad tale about a girl and a man who met, then went their separate ways. Many years later, when they were both married to other people, the two still daydreamed vainly about the other.
. . . God pity them both and pity us all who vainly the days of youth recall; for of all the words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been. . . .
Summer closed the book, then laid it on the nightstand again. The music box had slowly tinkled to a stop. She put it next to the book, blinking back tears, then went to the window again, stared out at the snow and wondered what was happening in Colorado right now.
“Miss Summer?” Mrs. O’Malley’s familiar voice jarred Summer out of her thoughts as the maid opened the door. “Are you in here?”
“Yes, I—I was seeing about Mother.” She turned to face the plump Irish maid. “Are the children all right?”
The gray head nodded. “Aye, lamb, they’re napping. You don’t look so good; maybe next time the doctor comes, he should look at you.”
“Don’t be silly,” Summer sighed and crossed the room, almost falling over the suitcase standing by the door. She wasn’t ready to deal with Dr. Morgan yet. “Mother doesn’t have anything catching; at least, Dr. Morgan doesn’t seem to think so.”
The plump maid looked toward the bed. “Has the poor lass changed any?”
Summer shook her head. “She doesn’t get better, she doesn’t die; she just waits.”
Mrs. O’Malley crossed herself and wiped a tear from her eye. “Aye, I know. I’ve been her maid many a year, and even I don’t know what it is she waits for.”
Summer felt very sad and very tired. “Was there—was there any mail for me?”
The maid shook her head. “Suppose not; at least Evans didn’t give me anything to bring up to you.” She seemed to notice the bereft expression on Summer’s face: “Now, it would be hard indeed for your Indian to get a letter out with all the trouble in the West.”
“Of course; I only hoped. . . .” Summer’s voice trailed off. Another day without any word from Iron Knife. “I—I think I will lie down a few minutes.”
“Remember, love, your father expects you at dinner.”
She wanted to go home to her man, not entertain some dull old customer of Father’s, but there was nothing she could do tonight except be pleasant. “Of course. I’ll rest awhile and you can help me dress later.” With that, Summer brushed past Mrs. O’Malley and went to her room.
Summer had planned to wear a deep blue dress to dinner, but Mrs. O’Malley couldn’t get the hooks fastened. “I didn’t realize with all the rich food I’ve been eating these last fews weeks that I must have put on a little weight,” she confessed as she took it off and the maid selected another from the big wardrobe.
“Aye, possibly ye never took it off after the last wee one,” plump Mrs. O’Malley suggested. “After all, you haven’t worn this dress since before you ran off to the Indians, and you were thin as a rail then.”
“I was never thin as a rail,” Summer said.
The Irish maid smiled. “Now, lamb, compared to some of us, ye was thin as a shadow. You’ll take it off gradually, never you mind. Some women, it just takes longer than others.”
Had the dear woman guessed? If she had, she was waiting for Summer to announce it. Summer looked through her vast wardrobe, finally settling on a low-cut, plum-colored velvet that had been a trifle big for her several years ago. Now it fit like a glove. Summer studied herself in the mirror with satisfaction. “Doesn’t look half bad, does it?”
The maid put her hands on her own ample hips and nodded. “You’ll entertain your father’s business client, all right. Just the sight of you in that dress would interest any man. Now let me do up your hair, Miss Summer.”
Summer felt a little better looking at her reflection in the mirror. Yes, the dress did look good on her with the swell of her breasts visible above the bodice. Maybe attempting to be an entertaining dinner partner would be interesting after all; at least it would be better than the dull evening meals with Father and Angela night after night. “Just how old is old Mr. St. Clair?”
“Older than you are.” Mrs. O’Malley sat down in a chair and picked up her knitting. “But he’s hardly an old man.”
Of course the maid would say that. At her age, if he were less than sixty, Mrs. O’Malley would think him young and handsome.
The maid got out the curling irons, heating them over the glass chimney of a lamp before applying them to Summer’s long, blond locks which she now put up in a cascade of curls with plum and pink ribbons.
Summer twirled in a circle. “Are you sure I look all right to entertain guests?”
“My, yes, now you go on down and let me knit in peace. I’ve promised your babes some mittens for the winter snow.”
Summer took one final look. “I’ll check on the children on my way downstairs.”
“No need; they’re probably asleep by now.”
Still Summer looked in on them before she went downstairs to join Father in the library. “Has your guest not arrived yet?”
Silas started as he looked at his daughter. It was almost like seeing Priscilla for the very first time, all those long years ago. He had loved her so very much then. He took the cigar from between his teeth and shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Is something the matter?”
He blinked to clear his eyes. Silas Van Schuyler had a reputation as a cold, shrewd man, and in many ways, he had earned that. In business, no one could outmaneuver him, and he delighted in besting another, humiliating and destroying men. “I was just thinking how much you look like your mother.”
“Hardly. Mother was a great beauty in her day, wasn’t she?”
“The most beautiful in Boston; maybe in the world.” And she had been his; at least, he had owned her body. Some things money would buy.
“I spent most of the afternoon in her room.”
He did not want to ask, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Did she—did she ask for me?”
“No.” Then she seemed to add as a merciful afterthought, “She isn’t asking for anyone, Father; mostly, she doesn’t seem to recognize people.”
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I went into her room last night to look in on her; fell over that damned suitcase. I thought I gave servants orders to unpack it.”
“I countermanded that order.” Summer’s chin came up, and her tone sharpened. Obviously the girl had more of his own temperament than he realized. “Besides”—Summer stared into the fire—“when we unpack it, she stumbles out of bed and attempts to repack it.”
Silas swore softly under his breath. “I don’t know where in the hell she thinks she’s going!”
“Does it matter? She’s dying, Father, and if it makes her happy, let it stay packed; she’s had little happiness in this house.”
“Are you reprimanding me, young lady?” His voice rose, although he tried to control it.
“No, Father, I’m sure you tried.”
He stared at the glowing tip of his cigar in silence. Silas Van Schuyler had loved Priscilla madly—or maybe he had only loved what she had represented; blue-blooded, respectable Boston society. He had suspected she was in love with another man when she wed him, but Silas found out soon enough. Gradually, his love had turned to hatred because she wouldn’t love him in return, so in his frustration, he had humiliated her and driven her to drink. The very last time he had been in her bed was the night he had raped her because he’d seen that Shawn O’Bannion lurking in front of the house. With her belly big with Angela, Priscilla couldn’t leave him for that other man. Would she have? They had never discussed that cursed Irish gardener, not once in all these years. Maybe she didn’t even know he knew about Shawn.
“Father,” Summer said, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Lance. I hope you won’t get too attached to him; remember we’re going back when Mother—well, you know.”
“And is it a crime to be fond of my grandson?” He puffed his cigar. “Reminds me of myself; could be a real empire builder. Your weak brother certainly will never do anything with the Van Schuyler fortune.”
“There’s other things besides building empires.” She sounded defensive, and he noted her lovely face was pale. He hoped she wasn’t coming down with anything. Yellow fever wasn’t around during the cold weather, but there was always typhoid, diphtheria, smallpox. “Father, would you mind putting out that cigar? The smoke is making me quite ill.”
She did look sick. He snuffed out the cigar. “It does seem a shame to take the children back to live as savages when I could give them so much.” Silas decided to try both guilt and logic.
Her face reddened. “Money isn’t everything. The West is wonderful; big and free. Lance could build his own empire out there with all those opportunities.”
“He’d do even better with my money behind him.”
She whirled on him. “Father, he’s only a little boy; let’s let him plan his own future, shall we?”
“I only thought he could go on to great heights with some education and all the other advantages I could give him.” He had botched the raising of David somehow, but with Lance he’d have another chance to mold the kind of son he’d always wanted. “Don’t decide now, Summer,” he said gently. “You have a while to think about it. Perhaps you could leave him with me awhile and then come back for him in a year or two.”
“His father wouldn’t like that.”
Silas managed to control his temper and his tongue. Iron Knife. The big virile savage was not the kind of son-in-law he had wanted at all. He almost said something to Summer about the scandal she had caused when she’d run away with that Indian, then decided against it. The first thing was to persuade her to leave the child with him and maybe little Garnet, too. He sipped his brandy and thought. Storm, no, he didn’t think he wanted that Injun-looking one, but he’d like to raise the other two. By the time she came back to retrieve them, Silas would have his firm of lawyers ready to prove she was not fit to have custody. No civilized court in the land would return them to her. Long ago, he had bought himself the wife he wanted, and now he was prepared to buy the grandchildren.
He cleared his throat and tried to smile kindly. “Just think on it, Summer; it would be a wonderful opportunity for Lance. Think how lonely I will be when your mother is gone and you go back west. I doubt that David will ever return to Boston.”
“You have Angela.”
Angela. The child of rape. There was something evil about that daughter; perhaps because of the violence of her conception. “Yes, but a man needs sons. No woman can manage an empire.”
“I could.” Angela stuck her head around the door, and Coaldust, the black cat, preceded her:
Silas frowned. “It isn’t polite to eavesdrop. Go to your room, young lady.”
The blond beauty picked up her cat. “I could manage all the Van Schuyler holdings; much better than anyone,” she snapped. “I’m more like you than either Summer or David.”
“She’s right, Father,” Summer said. “Someday, women will take an active part in the business world. You underestimate us.”
“As I recall,” Silas said acidly, “all this women’s equality thing is what created the scandal that got you sent away west to begin with.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Angela snapped. “I’m old enough to be invited to have dinner with guests; I’m almost sixteen.”
“Go to your room,” Silas ordered. “Mr. St. Claire is coming to meet your sister.”
With an angry sob, Angela turned and, still carrying her cat, ran from the room.
Summer eyed him strangely. “Coming to meet me? I thought he was here on business?”
Ye Gods! Why had he let the words slip out? “I merely meant he had said he was looking forward to talking to anyone who’d been in the West; he’s wondering about business opportunities out there.”
“Oh.” She appeared somewhat mollified.
He heard the doorbell chime and Evans going to answer it. “That’s probably our guest, Summer. I’m thinking of turning a tidy profit doing business with him, so please be polite.”
Summer smiled. “I can be nice to the old codger, Father.”
Where had she gotten the idea that Beau was old? Silas gave her his warmest, most innocent smile. “Thank you, my dear.”
Summer was not expecting Beau St. Claire to be so handsome and polished—not as young as he was. He was probably in his late thirties. She managed to recover from her surprise as they were introduced and the handsome, suave Southerner bent to kiss her hand. “Charmed, I’m sure, Miss Summer. Your father’s description doesn’t do you justice.”
She felt herself redden at the compliment. “You are certainly a charmer, Mr. St. Claire.”
“No, ma’am, you are the charmer.” He smiled at her, and a lock of curly light hair fell down across his patrician forehead. “Ma’am, please call me Beau.”
He had the most wonderful Southern accent and soulful brown eyes, Summer realized.
“As in Beau Brummel, the famous lover?”
“As in Beauregard, one of the best known names among Southern aristocracy, ma’am.”
She felt like a fool. Why had she flirted with him? Of course this polished, well-dressed Southern blade would not be interested in her. Everything about him said money and breeding. “I—I think the butler is about to announce dinner.”
“In that case, Miss Summer”—he offered her his arm in a grand gesture—“I’d be proud to escort you; you are indeed the most beautiful thing I have seen in this frozen land of Yankees.”
She felt like a silly school girl as she took his arm. Iron Knife was strong, virile and protective, but this gentleman of the South knew how to please a lady. Yet there was something about him that made Summer a trifle uneasy. Beau St. Claire was a bit too smooth.
They went into the big dining room with its ornate mahogany table and crystal chandelier. The table linen was crisply white, and her mother’s fine crystal made the table sparkle. Beau seated her across from himself. “I’m so glad you invited me to dinner, suh, I had no idea you had such a lovely daughter.”
His accent was as thick and smooth as molasses, and it added to his polished charm.
“I—I have children,” she blurted, and then felt foolish because there was no reason to tell him that since he was only here on business.
“I envy that lucky man, then, Miss Summer.” Beau beamed at her and brushed the light curl from his forehead. “I have never been so lucky to meet a flower like you or I would not now be almost forty and still a bachelor.”
It was fun to flirt with him even though she loved her Cheyenne dog soldier. In the back of her mind, she was a bit peevish and annoyed that she hadn’t heard from Iron Knife. “So, Mr. St. Claire, what is a Southerner doing in the north at these times?”
The butler poured the wine, and she sipped hers. A very good year, she thought, Father must be trying to impress Beau St. Claire.
“Like you, dear lady,” Beau drawled, “I’m hoping this sad business will soon end and we can get back to really important things, namely business and making a profit.” He savored the wine. “A good year.” He nodded appreciatively at Silas.
Father nodded. “I thought you’d appreciate it, Beau. You have the class and breeding to know fine wine and food.”
“Fine women, too.” Beau held his glass up in a toast and smiled at Summer.
She looked down at her plate, felt the blood rush to her face. “Have—have you been in Boston long, sir?”
He shook his head. “I just came from Washington; before that, I was in Atlanta and Louisville. My sister and I have managed to keep Yankee troops from destroyin’ Shannon Place, so we’re one of the few plantations still turning a profit.”
Father leaned back in his chair as Evans began to serve a rare haunch of beef from a heavy silver tray. “Beau, you really are a man of the world. What’s happening in Washington these days?”
“I can’t see how the war can last more than a few more weeks.” Beau smiled at Summer and sipped his wine. His waistcoat fit him to perfection and was of the finest fabric, Summer noted. “I saw several good plays while I was in the capital.”
Summer was intrigued as was everyone she knew at the excitement of Washington. “Did you see that handsome John Wilkes Booth? I hear all the ladies just swoon over him.”
Beau laughed. He had a charming, easy laugh. “Well, as a matter of fact, I did, ma’am; saw the president, too. He was passin’ by in his carriage one day when I was on the street.”
“And does his wife really have all those fine clothes people say she does?” Summer asked.
“I reckon. You do know some of her brothers and brothers-in-law are fightin’ for the South?”
“We heard that.” Silas frowned and cut into his roast beef. “But what can you expect from the wife of a nobody like Lincoln? He ought to go back to being a country lawyer.”
“Now, Father,” Summer soothed, “he’s gotten us through the war all right. Some think he’s a great president.”
Silas snorted. “Humph!”
Beau regarded him kindly. “Suh, you and I have both profited well from the conflict as smart businessmen always will.”
“That’s true,” Silas said and sipped his wine.
The big grandfather clock in the hall began to boom out the hour. Both men took out their pocket watches and checked them.
“Right on time,” Father said.
Summer looked at the ornate gold watch in Beau’s hand. “Such a beautiful timepiece, Mr. St. Claire.”
“Isn’t it, though?” He held it out so she could see the inscription. “My dear sister gave it to me for my birthday.” To Beau St. Claire with all my love, Savannah.
Father beamed at the Southerner. Obviously he’d found a man after his own heart. They both put their watches back in their vests. “I do hope you’ll come to dinner often when you’re in town, Beau. Isn’t that right, Summer?”
“Yes, of course.” He was interesting and charming, too, Summer thought as she began to eat. Or was it only that this was such a sad, gloomy household that any guest was wonderful?
“I reckon I would hate to impose in this sad time,” Beau drawled, “knowing about the missus and all.”
Summer realized he was speaking to her. “There isn’t anything we can do but wait,” she answered softly. Abruptly, the sight of food was making her nauseous.
“I understand, Miss Summer.” He paused in eating, and his voice was soft with sympathy. “You’re stayin’ ’til it’s over?”
Summer blinked back the tears and nodded. She was getting more nauseous as she smelled the food.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Miss Summer, I am sorry.” Beau’s handsome face furrowed with concern.
“Why don’t you gentlemen go on with your dinner?” She gulped and attempted to rise. “I—I’m not feeling well.”
“Summer?” Father said. She caught the note of command in his voice. How dare she leave the table when he wanted her to stay and entertain his guest?
“Father, I’m suddenly quite ill.” She pushed back her chair, and Beau was instantly on his feet to aid her.
“Miss Summer, may I be of service?”
“No, I’ll be all right; something I ate, I think.”
“Ate?” Father roared, hawklike features crimson. “You haven’t taken three bites!”
“Perhaps it was the wine.” Before either of the men could say anything else, Summer turned and fled from the dining room, up the stairs to the washbasin in the bathroom. She just barely made it.
Mentally, she began to count up the weeks. Yes, she knew this feeling all too well. She and Iron Knife had made passionate love in late December. This was March. She had to face the fact she had been denying, even to herself. She was pregnant.
It was a blustery night in late March when Iron Knife slipped through the Denver streets to the newspaper building. In the back office, a single light still burned. He crawled through a window; his moccasins made no more noise than a cougar padding across the floor. A man sat with his back to Iron Knife, reading at a cluttered desk.
“Todd?”
The man started, whirled around, his chair creaking. “Good God, Iron Knife, you scared me out of a year’s growth!”
Iron Knife grinned. “Sorry.”
Todd gestured. “Come in and sit. I’ll get you some coffee.” He got up, went over to the potbellied stove, and poured a mug. “It could cost your life to come into town.”
Iron Knife sat down, accepted the cup, and warmed his hands around it as he regarded the handsome younger man. “A warrior who does not wish to be seen comes and goes as silent as a ghost.”
Todd laughed. “Arrogant and fearless as always.” He sipped his own steaming cup. “So just why have you taken such a risk?”
He hesitated, not wanting to admit why he had come all this long way. He looked toward the letter Todd had been reading. “Any—any news from Boston?”
“As a matter of fact, I had just opened this letter from Mother; I seldom hear from her because I don’t write back.” Todd tipped his chair back and reached for it, frowning.
Iron Knife sipped the hot, savory coffee, watching Todd’s hazel eyes. “There’s something about Summer Sky?”
“Well, not much; just dull stuff about everyday things in Boston.” Todd looked away.
He was hiding something, Iron Knife thought. “I would like to know.”
Todd shrugged. “It’s just my mother’s gossip. She never really liked Summer or her mother; I suppose because they both saw through her.”
It was not good manners, but he had to know. Before Todd could react, Iron Knife reached and took the letter from the other’s hands. “You try to protect me, my friend?”
Todd frowned. “Don’t pay any attention to my mother’s opinions; she never knows what she’s talking about.”
Iron Knife’s gaze ran down the letter until he saw Summer’s name.
. . . Austin’s back on the front with his friend, Custer. Everyone’s saying the war should be over in a matter of weeks. I keep hoping Austin can manage to get another leave soon, but I’m not fooling myself if he does, it will only be because he’s still in love with that scandalous Summer. Imagine her coming back bold as brass with three bastard Indian offspring! Her mother’s still alive, but just barely. In the meantime, that handsome Beau St. Claire has been seen at that house several times. Officially, he’s there to talk business, but he can’t fool me! If it were business, he could go to old Silas’ office. Silas would probably be thrilled if he could marry Summer off. . . .
Iron Knife felt as if he’d been hit hard in the gut. Very slowly, he laid the letter down on Todd’s desk.
“My mother is just a gossipy old biddy,” Todd said, grabbing the letter, tearing it up, and tossing it in the wastebasket.
Iron Knife didn’t answer. He felt too stunned to move, to think.
“Are you all right?” Todd leaned toward him, looking anxious.
He had been wounded many times in battle. He had survived the Sun Dance, heat, cold and starvation; yet a few words on paper had just destroyed him. In his mind, he saw his woman in the arms of another man, a handsome white man who knew the proper things to say and do to impress a rich, educated girl like Summer. “Do you know this Beau?”
Todd stuck a pencil behind one ear. “I may have met him once or twice when he came to talk business with my father. I think he sold cotton to our fabric mills.”
“Is he handsome?”
Todd shrugged. “Some might think so, kind of a dandy, well-dressed and knows the latest dances and gossip among the rich and powerful.”
Just the kind of man he was not, Iron Knife thought. He would look like a primitive savage by comparison.
“Summer wouldn’t be interested in a man like that.” Todd seemed to read his thoughts. “She’d prefer a genuine, sincere type.”
Iron Knife looked him in the eye. “She hasn’t answered any of my letters or wires.”
“Well, no”—Todd shook his head—“but you’ve got to consider she’s dealing with a dying mother and three little children—”
“Maybe back among civilized men, she’s decided I’m not the right choice; I always feared this would happen.”
“Well, eventually, her mother will die and she’ll come back—”
“Will she?” Iron Knife closed his eyes and sighed. “Or will I seem more and more like a distant memory, and she’ll decide she should stay in Boston?”
Todd tapped his fingers on his coffee cup. “I don’t know what to tell you, friend. I wish I did. Knowing Summer, I figured that with her, love would last a lifetime and that nothing else mattered.”
Iron Knife stood up. “I feel that way; I’ve got to know if she does, too. The longer she’s gone, the more likely that she’ll never return.”
“Life is hard among the Cheyenne,” Todd said, “especially with an Indian war going on; you couldn’t blame her if she began to think about the luxurious living her father’s money could buy. Most women would not be able to resist the temptation to stay back east.”
Iron Knife paced the office in an agony of emotion. In his mind, he saw some white man embracing Summer, kissing her. “She said we had a once in a lifetime love.”
Todd sighed. “People change, friend, and maybe nothing can be counted on to last a lifetime in this world.”
“She could count on me, always. For me, nothing can ever change the way I feel about her.”
Todd made a soothing gesture. “There’s not much you can do except wait and hope you two can work this thing out if—I mean when—she returns.”
“If I were there, I could sway her thoughts by holding her, making love to her; reminding her what we have meant to each other.” He went to stare out the window at the cold, dark night. “I will not give her up so easily; I might go to Boston.”
“Boston?” Todd stood up so quickly, his chair rattled on the wooden floor. “Do you know how far it is to Boston?”
“It is another world away”—Iron Knife turned to him—“but I would go anywhere, do anything, rather than lose her without a fight.”
Todd ran his hand through his tousled hair. “This is crazy! With all this Indian war, you think a Cheyenne can just get on the nearest train and go off to Boston?”
“I lived among the whites in Texas for five years,” Iron Knife said. “I know a little about civilization, and if I had some help—”
“But Boston is a long way! Lots of things could happen or go wrong trying to get there. Even if you made it, there’s no guarantee she’d come back with you.”
“I’m willing to take the risk.” Iron Knife came over to him, blinking as his vision seemed to blur at the thought of losing the woman who was the center of his universe. “I do not know what else to do.”
Now it was Todd who paced up and down. “You have no idea what you’re taking on trying to get to Boston—”
“I have fought Utes, Pawnees, the U.S. Cavalry, a panther and a bear,” Iron Knife said. “I would fight them all again to reclaim Summer Sky.”
“A Cheyenne dog soldier on the streets of Boston,” Todd said with a shake of his head, “no one will know what to make of it; you might end up arrested or shot by the police or some soldier.”
“I would risk that, rather than lose her,” he argued stubbornly.
“Silas Van Schuyler would try to have you thrown in jail if he heard you were coming.”
“If no one knows, he wouldn’t be able to stop me.”
“You’d just show up at Summer’s house as a surprise?” He paused and frowned. “It is the craziest idea I ever heard and dangerous. Anything could happen to you. No one would be concerned or know if you should disappear, go to jail or be killed by soldiers or the police.”
“I only want to see her, have her tell me with her own lips our love was a lie,” Iron Knife said. “If you won’t help me, I’ll do the best I can.”
Todd sighed. “If I could get away from the paper right now, I’d go with you; but with the war and the Indian trouble, we have a difficult time now getting the paper out, so I can’t leave.”
“I am not afraid to try the long trip alone,” Iron Knife said.
“I don’t imagine anything scares you,” Todd said, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let me give it some thought on the best way to proceed; we’ll stay in touch through Cherokee Evans. If you feel you have to go to Boston, you might be able to wear Cherokee’s clothes. He’s about your size or I’ll try to buy some in your size.”
“You would dress me like a white man?” The idea of the tight clothing did not appeal to him. “You would tie a bright rag around my neck?”
Todd laughed. “A necktie is a pretty silly thing when I think about it, but yes, we’d have to dress you like a white man. After all, you’re halfwhite; if you dressed Western style with boots, maybe no one would notice you.”
“Not cut my hair.” Iron Knife shook his head.
“No, we could put it up under a Western hat, but you may have to take your earring and bone whistle off for a while. Let’s not rush into this drastic step yet. Wait a few more weeks and see if you get a letter, and in the meantime, I’ll send Summer a wire myself; see if I can find out anything. I’ll send word.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
They shook hands solemnly, and Iron Knife turned toward the window. “Goodbye for now.” Then as noiseless as a whisper, he slipped out the window and into the cold night air.