Chapter Thirty-Three
He’d told Hattie that she had to stay with the doctor until she recovered, but really it was Jack who needed the recovery time. He’d been filling his plate with wild turkey and hot rolls when the alarm sounded. Jack still didn’t remember what happened to his plate of food. Surely someone caught it as he ran out the door with Major Adams.
“We were all looking for you.” He offered Hattie a mug of stout coffee. “Once we realized that someone had sprung Bixby from his guards, we knew you were in danger. Everyone—troopers, agents, missionaries, and the Indians—was looking for you.”
Hattie waved away the coffee. Her foot tapped against the floor as she sat on a low cot. “If the dinner has resumed, that’s where I want to be. I don’t want this to be the only memory of our first Christmas together. Even if I could just watch the children and their excitement, it would help me not think about what could’ve happened today.”
“Is that healthy?” Jack asked the doctor, who was taking her pulse. “Won’t she be susceptible to overexcitement right now? Shouldn’t she go home and rest?”
“Why are you asking him?” Hattie said. “I’ve been through enough trauma in the last month to know what to expect. I think I’ll carry on just fine through the dinner. I won’t have any infuriating attacks of feminine weakness until bedtime.”
She sat up straight. Jack recognized the look. She was trying to convince him that she was strong and able. And she was, but her drawn face evidenced the toll the night had taken on her.
“I don’t want to overtax you,” he said.
“This party is only once a year. And I have the shells I painted for the children. Daisy will be so disappointed if I don’t get them to the party.”
Those painted shells were the least of Jack’s concerns, but since they were here already . . .
“It’s my pleasure to escort you to the Christmas Eve supper,” he said. “I only hope there’s still some food left for us. No running away from me this time.”
The doctor stepped out of the way as Jack helped Hattie into his coat. She must have forgotten to grab hers when she’d gone for the gifts with Daisy, but it was fitting that she had his on now. Jack pulled a trooper aside and, with Hattie’s help, instructed him on where to find her basket.
“Jack?” Hattie shivered once they’d stepped into the brisk night air. “What happened to Sloane? Did he die?”
“Either that fall or the gallows was going to break his neck. It doesn’t matter much which one got him first.”
“To think, I was riding with him all along, and he was just waiting for his time.”
“And if the Cheyenne hadn’t slowed Bixby down, the partners would’ve met up and gotten away with the money. With Bixby injured, Sloane had to come back for him.”
“Does everyone at supper know?” she asked. “I hate for this to ruin their celebration.”
“They won’t shed any tears for him. Especially on a night like tonight.”
She hoped Major and Mrs. Adams wouldn’t act overly concerned. Hattie didn’t like being a victim. She wanted respect, not pity. With Bixby back in custody and his partner no longer a threat, she was free to move on.
The party was in full swing. A quartet was harmonizing Christmas carols while two Indian men slapped a beat on an upturned bucket and added their rhythmic voices to the song. The children, awed by the tinsel and greenery, remained in their places even though their plates had been cleaned long ago. But being well-behaved didn’t stop them from laughing and calling to each other across the room. Although separated by language, culture, and seating arrangements, all the adults seemed to be having a good time, even if they were having it separately.
Jack motioned to the table by the window where the Adamses sat. Daisy waved excitedly. The tension in Hattie’s chest loosened. She’d get back to her seashells, and all would go on as planned. She lost sight of Daisy when a couple of Arapaho came to their feet. She tried to slip through the gap between the tables, but then more stood. Hattie stopped and looked at Jack. Was everyone leaving now? Was she too late?
But they weren’t leaving. They were looking at her. One ancient woman with long silver braids pounded on her table. Two young mothers with soft eyes and strong hands joined in. Others joined in until the quartet was overtaken. The standing Indians parted as Chief Right Hand made his way toward them.
The room quieted at his upraised hand. He pointed at Jack. The fringe on his sleeve swayed with every one of his deep, bass syllables. Jack ducked his head as the chief continued. He was talking about Hattie. All eyes, mostly brown, but a few blue and green, were turned her way. Hattie’s heart beat painfully and unevenly. Was she in trouble for Sloane? Did they understand what had happened? Or did they think that once again she was a victim in need of rescuing? She looked at the brave mothers who had made the hard choice to send their children to school. Hattie didn’t want to be a victim in their eyes.
The chief ended his speech. Major Adams and Superintendent Seger watched Jack expectantly.
“Well,” said Major Adams, “what did he say?”
Jack shot her an apologetic look. Hattie’s eyes dropped to the ground as she waited for whatever uncomfortable pronouncement Jack was forced to translate.
“It’s been made known to Chief Right Hand and the rest of the tribe that the gold shipment meant for the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes has been recovered by Mrs. Hennessey. They also understand that by her quick thinking, she was able to bring the second bandit to justice.”
Hattie’s hands clenched. That wasn’t the announcement she was expecting. She looked up at Jack, surprised to see him smiling.
“Furthermore,” he said, “since we were married in an Arapaho ceremony, they feel they have the right to claim her as one of their tribe as a daughter, and they want it known that the gold was recovered by one of their own.”
Hattie watched Chief Right Hand through tear-filled eyes as he walked forward and took her by the shoulders. Placing her in front of him, he pulled a feather out of his braid and threaded it through her coif.
Next, Spotted Hawk stepped forward. With a toothy grin, she said something that Jack quickly translated. “They won’t call you One Who Spills Stew in Anger anymore. She will tell the chief that you have a new name. From now on, they will call you Found Treasure.”
Hattie had to laugh. She wished she had something to give them back. It didn’t seem like the money should count, since all she’d done was remember where it was.
But she did have something. Clapping her hands together, she spun to Daisy. Daisy read her smile and snatched her basket off the table. It felt heavenly to greet the students and hand them their gifts.
Daisy skipped as she wove through the tables, finding every last child she knew and handing the unnamed packages to those she didn’t know. At first the children held the paper-wrapped bundles curiously, turning them over and over. But Tom Broken Arrow snapped the string on his, and then there was an avalanche of rustling paper.
Hattie watched as Francine’s shell fell out of the paper and into the girl’s hand. Francine turned it over, and her eyes widened. Her face glowed as she touched the smooth interior that held the painting of her mother and younger sister. Her mother was bending to get a better look. Her brow wrinkled in disbelief as she leaned in. With a quick word, a young man who had to be Francine’s father leaned in to see. He grunted with pride, his eyes traveling from the shell to his family and back again.
Francine ran across the room to Hattie with her parents following. She could barely take her eyes off the shell.
“Father wants to know if you painted this,” she said.
“I did,” Hattie replied. “I’m sorry he’s not in it, as well. I didn’t see him that day at the school.”
Francine translated, then waited for his response. “He’s asking if you could make another one. Except this time he wants it to be a picture of me.” She smiled up at her father before continuing. “He wants to keep it with him while I’m away at school. Then he can see me even when I’m not there.”
Both parents looked eager for her answer. Hattie nodded. “If I can find enough shells, I’d be glad to do a portrait for each child.”
“We will provide the gift,” her father said, according to Francine. “It is little compared to the beauty you add to them.”
Hattie wanted to tell them that the beauty was provided by God and shown through them, but she didn’t want to tax little Francine’s vocabulary. Either way, she was honored to create keepsakes for the family, especially if it made their separation easier to bear.
Painting was what Hattie did. It was her gift to share with others. And if it gave her an excuse to spend more time with these children, then she was amply rewarded already.