Before the Dawn (23 page)

The words hit Leah with such sweet force, she almost fell over. “Ryder—”

“I'm not done.”

Leah quieted and noted the pulse beating between her thighs.

“I've been fighting off my desire for you from the moment we met, and I've come to a decision.”

“Which is?”

“I'm not going to fight it anymore.”

Their eyes held.

He added then, “I want you. You want me. I'm going to remind you of those two truths each and every time we're together, so be warned. Good night.”

Leah could only blink as she watched him stride off. What an arrogant and impossible man! But when she replayed his words, her traitorous nipples tightened, and the throbbing in her body began again. A portion of herself was still undone by all she'd heard, but the woman inside smiled; she couldn't wait for their next encounter.

Leah went inside, undressed, and got into bed. She wondered if she'd dream of Ryder.

She dreamt of Cecil. His dead body was lying in a coffin in a shadowy, black-draped room. The silent room was empty but for a lone chair in the corner. On it sat Helene. The sight startled Leah awake. She was just as alarmed to
find herself shaking and covered in sweat. Wiping her hands across her eyes, she tried to calm herself. Had there been more to the dream than she remembered? What had caused such a reaction? For a moment there she'd felt absolute terror.

Throwing back the covers, Leah padded barefoot over to the dresser and by the light of the approaching dawn put on a dry gown. The dream was fading as were the resonants of terror. Leah thought a bit of air might do her good, so, grabbing a cloak, she put it on over her nightgown and stepped out into the quiet.

The birds were signaling the beginning of the new day with songs that trilled against the silence and the oranges and reds stripping the still-dark sky. Leah had no destination, but her steps seemed to naturally take her through the dew-damp flowers to Alice. Just before Leah got within sight of the statue, she thought she heard a voice. She stopped to listen for a moment to make sure it hadn't been her imagination. She heard it again. It was Eloise. The trees encircling the cleared oval of land where Alice stood allowed Leah the cover she needed to approach without being seen. Leah didn't want to disturb her landlady but she did want to make sure she wasn't in distress, so she walked slowly very quietly.

Leah could see Eloise sitting on the bench talking to Alice it seemed.

Eloise was saying, “I thought the Lord had forgiven us, Alice, but looks like we got one more trial ahead.” Eloise quieted for a moment, then said, “You're right, it is a shame, but we both know it has to be done.”

Leah realized Eloise was acting as if she and the marble girl were having a real conversation.

For a short time there was silence again, then Eloise said, “No, I don't know when. I'm sure the time will show itself though. Maybe then the Lord will be done with us and we
can rest.”

Eloise then began nodding as if listening to and agreeing with whatever Alice was saying.

“You're right, precious,” Eloise replied. “We can only do what's right, and pray.”

Leah had never seen anything as strange as this but supposed if she were living alone with only an old mule and a statue, she would probably exhibit some eccentric behavior, too. At least she has someone to talk to, Leah thought, and decided Eloise's talks were probably as harmless as Eloise herself.

 

Sunday morning meant church in Eloise's house. As Leah rode with Eloise to join the thirty or so other parishioners in worship at one of the local A.M.E. churches Leah didn't mention the encounter she'd witnessed between Eloise and Alice earlier this morning. The pastor, the Reverend Garrison, was as handsome as he was young, but he was good in the pulpit.

On the drive back, Eloise asked, “How was the party at the Great Cordelia's?”

“At first, I felt like a tuna being circled by sharks.”

Eloise chucked. “That bad?”

“Ryder was there, too. He said Mr. Wayne invited him, but I don't think he did.”

“Probably not. Ryder and Cordelia don't get along real well.”

“Why not?” Leah asked.

“Because he wouldn't share her bed.”

Leah blinked.

“Ryder's very discriminating when it comes to women. He isn't a philanderer like his father was. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Did you and Ryder get to talk?” Miss Eloise asked.

Leah thought back to the ride home; its passionate middle and its fiery end. She didn't think Eloise wanted that much detail. “We did, but it turned out confusing as always.”

“Well, Ryder seems quite taken with you, in spite of the problems.”

“I know, but I wonder about his motives though,” Leah confessed.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he didn't exactly love his father.”

“Few did, Leah, and there is the death of Ryder's mother in this, too.”

Leah sighed. “I know. I just keep wondering if the only reason he's interested in me is to extract some type of revenge.”

Holding the reins of Ol' Tom, Eloise shrugged. “That's quite possible. Ryder's a complicated individual. Has been his whole life. However you're a very beautiful woman. His interest is only natural, I think.”

“Or just another competition between him and Seth.”

“There's that possibility also. They've been competing most of their lives. When they were young the game was heavily weighed in Seth's favor. He was the legitimate Montague son, and Helene always made sure he had the best. On the other hand, Ryder had his grandmother, Little Tears, and the rest of her Cheyenne people, but life on a reservation wasn't much of a life. If the hunger didn't get you, the disease did. There were no fancy Sunday suits or trips to San Francisco for Ryder like there were for Seth.”

“I can't believe people around here called him Squaw Boy.”

“One of the milder slurs they tarred him with. After his mother's death, Little Tears took him back to her people.
They returned here after the massacre at Sand Creek.”

“What was his mother like?”

“Beautiful, exotic. She and Louis were pretty much cut from the same cloth.”

“Meaning?” Leah prompted.

“Pardon my frankness but the more they had the more they wanted. He gave her carriages, stock, gold, clothes, and she took it all willingly. Rumor had it she wanted him to marry her after Louis sent her husband to his death down that shaft, but he refused. Bernice had been dead over a year, but I guess he didn't want a Black half-breed gracing his table either. In many ways, it's good this all took place while Ryder was an infant and too young to understand.”

“Why?”

“Because he'll never really know just what a Jezebel his mother was.”

Leah heard the tone of disapproval in Eloise's voice, and replied, “But no one deserves to die alone at the bottom of a mine shaft, Eloise. Jezebel or not.”

Eloise nodded, then said, “You're right, child. You're right.”

“Now, tell me about this massacre—Sand Creek, did you call it?”

Eloise asked, “You don't know about Sand Creek then?”

“No, I don't. Where or what is it?”

“It's down by the Big Sandy River over near the Colorado-Kansas border.”

“And the Indians massacred some people there?”

“No, some people massacred the Indians there. Cheyenne and Arapaho to be exact.”

Leah went still.

“This happened on November 29, 1864. You have to remember how bad times were back then for the tribes; government folks cheating them out of their land, hunting them down like game to put them on reservations. Here in Col
orado it was no different. As soon as a treaty was signed, the men on the government's side would break it. The territorial governor at the time was a man named Evans. He wanted all the tribes gone and didn't care how. Helping him was Colonel James Chivington and his Colorado Volunteers. Now, Chivington absolutely hated Indians. Hated them. He told folks that he'd not only come to kill Indians, but he believed it right and honorable to use any means under God's heaven to kill them.”

“My word,” Leah exclaimed. “He sounds depraved.”

“Many think he was.”

“So what happened at Sand Creek?”

Eloise paused a moment as if the memory brought her pain. “Chivington and his regiments descended on the Cheyenne and Arapaho with seven hundred men, four howitzers, and enough hate to shame the devil. The Indians were asleep. This was just before dawn, and there were hundreds of Indians in the camp. Mostly old people, women, and children. The men were off hunting. The others awakened to hell. When the shooting finally stopped, Chivington's men had killed a hundred and five women and children. That was the government's estimate. The survivors said those killed really numbered in the hundreds. Many of the children were infants who died in their mothers' arms. Then the butchering began.”

“They killed babies?”

“Some, unborn.”

“Dear Lord,” Leah whispered. “And Ryder and his grandmother were there?”

Eloise nodded sadly. “If Chivington's men hadn't spent the long ride to Sand Creek getting drunk, countless more would've died that night, but between the drunks and the troops who couldn't shoot straight, many, like Ryder and Little Tears, somehow managed to get away.”

“Did anyone back East care that this had been done?”

“Oh, there were hearings held afterward. I do have to say that a few of the army officers with Chivington that day were sickened by what they saw and told the government investigators just that.”

“What happened to Chivington?”

Eloise gave a bitter chuckle. “He took a bit of heat for a while, but now he's the undersheriff in Denver.”

“What?”

“Yep.”

Leah shook her head solemnly. “Only in America.”

“My feelings, too. So, I told you all this to say Ryder has more than just the death of his mother and his feelings toward his father haunting him.”

“How old was he?”

“About fourteen if I'm remembering correctly.”

“Fourteen,” Leah whispered. At the age of fourteen her only concerns were raising hell at Miss Caldwell's School for Young Women of Color. Her heart ached for the fourteen-year-old Ryder. He and his grandmother must have been terrified to find themselves in the middle of such carnage.

Eloise looked over and said, “So now you know about Sand Creek.”

“I doubt I'll ever forget.”

“Good. Always remember in honor of those children who never drew breath.”

Eloise was so silent for so long afterward, Leah peered over, and asked, “Are you okay?”

Holding the reins, Eloise slowly wagged her head. “No, just facing something down the road that's going to be distasteful.”

Leah thought back to the conversation between Eloise and Alice. “Are you ill?”

“Yep, I think I am,” she responded matter-of-factly.

Eloise then looked over at Leah's concerned face. “Don't
worry about it though. I know the cure.”

Leah felt relieved. She didn't want anything untoward to happen to one of the genuinely nice people she'd met here so far. “Well, if there's anything I can do to help, let me know.”

Eloise nodded, saying, “I will.”

L
ater that Sunday afternoon, Ryder's knock on Helene's door was answered by Mable France.

“How are you, Mr. Damien?” She stepped back so he could enter.

“Fine, Mrs. France. Is Helene here?”

“Yes, I'll get her.”

Ryder nodded as Mable went off. While waiting he looked around. The place was as stuffed with furniture as always, making Ryder feel a bit claustrophobic. Having spent most of his early years living beneath the sky, he didn't like the sensation of being hemmed in. He supposed it was the reason he'd built Sunrise on such a grand scale. He remembered the first time he entered this house. He couldn't have been older than four or five. His grandmother had some business with Helene, who wouldn't let either of them enter; too dirty, she'd said. She'd been in her glory back then; the profits from the mine left to her by
Louis were enough to make her a queen, and she'd basked accordingly. She had the fanciest clothes, the finest horses, and an attitude concerning the tribes that mirrored the general populace: Indians were lazy lying thieves. When Miss Eloise and Little Tears enrolled him in school, Helene and a few others in her circle had protested Ryder being educated along with their own. Even though he went on to prove innumerable times that he was by far the brightest student in the small segregated classroom, Ryder spent more time in detention than he did with his books. The almost daily fights he'd had were a direct result of being teased about his parentage, taunted about his mother's death, and being made to take his lessons seated on the floor at the back of the room; he might contaminate the other children had been the claim. He supposed they'd all expected him to turn the other cheek as the missionaries kept preaching to the reservation Cheyenne, but that rarely kept the bullies out of his face or off his back. So he'd retaliate—swiftly, openly. He didn't care that they expelled him; he'd do his studies with Miss Eloise at her kitchen table, but he did care about standing up for himself, and he always had.

Helene's glory days were over now. When her mine had gone fallow back in the late seventies, so had her world. Presently she didn't have two coins to rub together. Three years ago, when she walked into his office to offer him the deed to her house in exchange for some much-needed cash, he hadn't laughed or turned her away. If she were coming to him, he knew she'd exhausted all other sources and was at the end of her rope. She'd had to come to him, Squaw Boy, and that knowledge alone made up for all the verbal abuse he'd endured under her sneering presence while growing up. He'd taken the deed, given her her asking price, then signed the note at a percentage rate so high, she'd still be paying him ten years after she died and went to hell.

Helene entered the room. He noted the anger on her pale powdered face, but he didn't care. “Your note was due on Friday, Helene.”

“I can't pay it.”

He surveyed her. She looked uncomfortable, and well she should be. He had the power to put her fancy Creole self out on the street for all the world to see. “Are you planning on moving out?”

“Of course not. I'll have the money for you in a week.”

“It was due
last
week,” he reminded her pointedly.

“Surely seven days won't much matter to you.”

“If the shoe were on the other foot, would you be benevolent?”

They both knew the answer.

Her blue eyes were as frigid as a Minnesota winter. “You're enjoying this, aren't you.”

“My enjoyment isn't a factor. I carried you for six months last year. I told you then that was the last time.”

“You've more of your father in you than you think,” she retorted nastily.

“From you, I'll take that as a compliment. It doesn't change matters though. Either pay me or prepare to move.”

“But this was my sister's house.”

“A house you thought me too dirty to enter when I was young, remember?”

She looked away.

“So,” he told her coldly, “you have until four on Friday.”

He touched his hat and left.

 

When Ryder got back to his office he wondered how long it would be before Seth came barreling in to plead his aunt's case. He looked at his watch. He figured sometime after lunch.

He was correct. At half past two, one of the clerks came
to the door and announced that Mr. Seth Montague was in the outer office demanding to speak with him.

“Send him in.”

Seth barged in. “How dare you threaten Helene.”

“And good afternoon to you too, brother.”

Seth glared. “You've been waiting for this, haven't you?”

“For my money. Yes, I have.”

“That isn't what I mean, and you know it.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Ryder hadn't risen from his chair behind his desk. He sat there, his arms folded casually across his chest.

Seth declared, “You can't just toss her into the street.”

“Sure I can. The deed she signed over to me three years ago gives me that right. Are you by chance here to pay in her stead?”

Ryder knew the answer to that. Seth owed so many people so much money, he couldn't get a loan to buy penny candy. That was partly the reason why he hadn't been able to find backers for his homesteading plans. Only a fool would lend money to a man apt to lose it an hour later in a card game. “You haven't answered, Seth.”

Seth shot him a malevolent look. “You have a lot of Louis in you. Do you know that?”

“Second time I heard that today. Thanks for the compliment. Anything else?”

Seth's eyes blazed angrily.

Ryder drawled, “Guess not. Close the door on your way out.”

As if Seth were already gone, Ryder went back to reading the mining reports on his desk.

“You'll pay for this,” Seth promised.

Ryder didn't look up. In the resulting silence Seth stormed out.

As the echoes of the slammed door faded away, Ryder
looked up with a smile that did not reach his dark eyes. Like Seth and Helene, many folks abhorred the idea of a rich Black half-breed owning so much; but like a moth in a buffalo robe, he'd wormed his way so deep into the fabric of the economics here, they couldn't separate his money from their own without bring financial ruin raining down on all their heads. He had his fingers in so many pies, no one dared call him Squaw Boy anymore, at least not to his face. In reality he didn't care what they called him behind closed doors because thanks to hard work, a quick mind, and the strengths inherent in his mixed blood, he now had more wealth than even his father had at his age.

Louis.

Thoughts of Louis made memories rise, memories of the dark lady, the
Morenita.
Ryder had been trying not to think of her, but to no avail. His manhood stirred every time he thought about last night's tryst. She'd been bewitching, passionate, his. It didn't make sense why he was still so hell-bent on pursuing her in the face of what he knew about her, or what he thought he knew about her, he reminded himself pointedly. He knew very little, thus the Pinkerton; but he seemed to be the only person disturbed by the shadows shrouding her marriage. It was quite apparent that Sam and Eloise had taken her into their hearts unconditionally. They cared about her. He, on the other hand, had angrily rebuffed her attempts to explain that night, and he continued to kick himself for being so pigheaded. He hadn't expected to be her first, let alone be bothered by the fact that he was. In hindsight, he should have listened, but because he hadn't, they were forced to dance around each other instead of with each other. Last night he'd boldy tossed down the gauntlet, and he'd meant it. The Cheyenne always like a good hunt, especially if the
prize was challenging, and Leah Montague was all that and more.

 

A few days later, Leah and Eloise drove Ol' Tom into town to pick up the new paints Eloise had ordered and to see if there were any messages for Leah at the telegraph office.

The telegraph clerk recognized Leah right off. “Hi there, ma'am. Telegram came in for you a few days ago. I sent it around to the address your man left here.”

“Oh.” The news surprised her somewhat, mainly because Seth hadn't been out to Eloise's to let her know about it. She assumed he'd gotten busy with his land-development project and had let the telegraph slip his mind. “Well, I'll go over and see him. Thank you.”

He nodded.

Outside, Leah and Eloise walked back up the crowded street to retrieve the wagon tied up at a post a few shops down. “Do you know where he lives?” Leah asked Miss Eloise.

“Yep. Not too far from here.”

As they were walking they saw Cordelia and Barksdale approaching. “Man the harpoons,” Leah cracked sarcastically.

Cordelia, wearing an expensive wine-colored ensemble and matching hat, stopped and said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Montague. Did you enjoy the Hyers?”

“Yes, very much so.”

Cordelia barely smiled. “Well, where I'm from it's very impolite to leave someone's home without saying good-bye to the hostess.”

Leah winced inwardly. “My apologies. In the crush I didn't think I'd be missed.”

“You were. As was Ryder. Hello, Eloise.”

Eloise nodded.

Leah could see Barksdale looking her over hungrily. “Hello, Mr. Wayne.”

He grinned and nodded.

Cordelia asked, “I'm wondering if you'd like to be profiled in my newspaper, Mrs. Montague. It isn't often a widow takes up with her late husband's sons. I think everyone would be very interested in your story.”

“No thank you.”

“Surely you don't wish me to write it without having all the facts.”

“I doubt that will matter,” Leah replied.

Cordelia gave her a rattler's smile. “You're right. The paper will be out in a few days. Happy reading. Come, Barksdale.”

Barksdale winked boldly at Leah, then did as he was told.

Leah eyes were narrowed as she turned to Eloise, and asked, “Maybe I should've knocked her into the street and really given her something to write about?”

Eloise chuckled. “Now that, I'd've loved to see.”

They continued on up the street. Leah asked, “Does she really have a newspaper?”

“More of a social rag than anything else. Folks try to stay on her good side lest they wind up skewered on her front page.”

Leah could almost feel herself being poked through like a kabob. She vowed to steer clear of Cordelia in the future.

The street was so crowded with vehicles of all shapes and sizes, it took Eloise a moment to get Ol' Tom and the wagon into the flow of traffic. When they were finally under way, Eloise told Leah, “That building over there is where Ryder keeps his offices.”

Leah studied the two-story place. The sign across the front read:
DAMIEN MINING CO
. The brick building looked new and sported quite a few windows. She wondered if he were inside
and what he might be doing. Telling herself she shouldn't be thinking about him, she set her attention forward.

Eloise drove them to a section of town Leah had not seen before, and it contrasted sharply with the other areas. There, instead of windowed shops and fancy eating places, poverty reigned. There were shacks with rusted tin roofs and listing, poorly maintained boardinghouses with hard-eyed men congregated out front. Dirty children ran through the rutted streets, playing in the dust with misshapen hoops and skinny barking dogs. There were garishly dressed women standing in front of saloons and vice dens. The women eyed Leah and Eloise suspiciously as they rode by.

“Where are we?”

“Still in Denver.”

Leah saw tents so dirty they'd taken on the color of the dust. In front of them tired-looking women in drab clothing cooked on open fires while their smudged-faced children ran nearby. Leah could smell bodies, burned food, and despair.

“This is where the poor live. The tourists who come here to see the mountains and the old gold areas aren't shown this part of town. Many of these folks came out here hoping to strike it rich, but those days are gone.”

“So they wind up here?”

“Yep. Here and other places nearby. Some folks want to leave but don't have the money to make it back home. Most of the stories are real sad.”

Leah found the conditions heartbreaking and thought the town fathers should be made to lend these folks a hand. “Are there any aid societies in town?”

“Cordelia and her cronies pretend to help out, but most of the work is done by the churches and those genuinely interested in improving things.”

Eloise stopped the wagon in front of a small clapboard house that needed paint. It was in as much disrepair as the
rest of the area's buildings. The houses on either side had collapsed into piles of weathered, rotting wood. “Well, we're here.”

Unable to keep the surprise out of her voice, Leah asked, “Is this where Seth lives?”

“Yep. I'm going to let you out and go see one of the families a few houses down. Their eldest was sick last week, and I'd like to see how she's getting along. I'll swing back by when I'm done. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes.”

Leah nodded and got out. As Eloise drove away Leah marveled that this could possibly be the place the elegant and urbane Seth called home. Making her way up the weed-choked path, she stepped up onto the dilapidated porch and heard angry voices coming from inside via the paneless window. The higher-pitched voice belonged to Helene. The deeper one sounded like Seth. Although Leah had never been one to eavesdrop, the voices drew her like a moth to a flame. She stood quietly and listened.

“I want him dead!” Helene snapped. “I don't care how or by whom.”

Seth laughed cynically. “You can't kill him!”

Leah's eyes widened. Who in the world were they talking about?

“That dirty nigger half-breed! How dare he threaten to put me out of my own house!”