Behind His Blue Eyes (35 page)

One

SEPTEMBER 1871, MANHATTAN

“Y
ou sure?” Rafe asked.

Thomas Redstone nodded.

“But not all of it.”

“It is only hair.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Rafe shook his head. “It's more than that, Thomas. It's part of your identity. Like Wallace's kilt. Or a priest's robes. It's part of who you are.”

“And who am I,
nesene
?”

“An Indian warrior.”

“I am also white. And to honor my grandfather, I choose now to go the white way.”

“You're only white when it suits you, Thomas, and you know it. You're a Cheyenne Dog Soldier. Which is a lot harder to be than white.”

“I know this.” Thomas flashed that rare and startling smile that always caught people off guard. “And I did not earn that name because of my hair.”

Rafe threw his hands up in frustration. “Why are you doing this? Because of whatever happened in Indiana?”

A chill crept into the barbershop. “We will not speak of Prudence Lincoln.”

“Hell.” Rafe knew he treaded dangerous ground. Thomas and the beautiful mulatto had a long history together, only some of which Rafe knew. But something had happened between the two of them in Indiana that had made Thomas decide to continue on to New York, rather than stay for a longer visit with Miss Lincoln, or return home to his mountains in Colorado Territory.

The others traveling with them from Heartbreak Creek to Manhattan had wondered about it, too, but Thomas had rebuffed all questions.

Tait Rylander and his pregnant wife, Lucinda, had made the trip to help Lucinda's guardian, Mrs. Throckmorton, close up the Manhattan brownstone where they were all staying now; then they would return to Heartbreak Creek. Meanwhile, Ash—or the Earl of Kirkwell, as he was known in Britain—and his countess wife, Maddie, would go on to Scotland to check on the earl's estate and purchase thoroughbreds for Ash's horse ranch in Colorado. Rafe had agreed to go with them—as Ash's wrangler, not Thomas's nursemaid.

But upon arrival in New York, the Scotsman had asked him to keep an eye on Thomas until their steamer sailed . . . a more difficult task than Rafe had anticipated, since the Cheyenne had a tiresome habit of wandering off whenever the mood struck him.

Like this morning. Luckily, Rafe had tracked him to this barbershop before any damage was done. But now, seeing how adamant Thomas was to cut off the long black hair and feathered topknot that had marked him a Cheyenne warrior, Rafe wasn't sure what to do.

“What is this really about, Thomas?”

The Indian sat in stony silence for a moment, then sighed. “People stare.”

A laugh burst out before Rafe could stop it. “Hell, Redstone. They'll always stare. And not because of your hair.” He glanced over at the barber, who watched them with wary curiosity. “Am I right?”

The barber nodded, shook his head, and shrugged all at the same time. An indecisive fellow, it seemed.

“Then why?” Thomas asked.

Rafe couldn't find the words. There was something about Thomas Redstone—perhaps the utter confidence in the way he spoke and moved and looked at the world. Heads would always turn when he came into a room because without saying a word, he dominated it. Like Tait and Ash and the other men from Heartbreak Creek, he was a strong, resourceful, intelligent man. But with Thomas, there was something more. An unknown factor. None of his friends was quite sure what he would do if pushed too far, or if someone he cared about was threatened.

Rafe had heard the rumors about the leather pouch Thomas had once worn beneath his war shirt. It had purportedly contained the blunted bullet that had killed his wife and son, and the Cheyenne had vowed to return it to the trapper who had fired it—by shoving the piece of metal into the man's beating heart.

Vengeance. Rafe understood that. It was something they had in common.

No one knew if Thomas had actually carried out that threat, but one day the pouch was gone. When questioned about it, he had simply said, “It is over.”

The Cheyenne warrior was a law unto himself, and because of that, he was a man to reckon with. Even without the topknot and eagle feather, anyone who looked into those dark eyes knew it. “Ash and Tait aren't going to like it.”

“Ho. You think that will stop me?”

Rafe gave up. “But only to your shoulders. And keep the temple braids. Women love them.”

Thomas smirked. “As do you, it seems.”

Rafe ignored that and waved the barber in.

But as the long black strands fell to the floor, he wondered what had brought Thomas to this decision, and once the change was complete, if it would accomplish all that he had hoped.

A half hour later, they were back on the streets.

And heads were still turning.

“I think it is you they look at,” Thomas teased when a trio of women standing at the window of a dry goods store stopped speaking to stare at them when they walked by. “Women like big men, and your gold hair is prettier.”

“It's probably the gun.” Realizing the wind that whistled around the buildings had blown open his jacket to expose the six-shooter holstered on his hip, Rafe quickly buttoned the coat, not wanting to draw undue attention. But after the riots in this area two months earlier between Irish Protestants and Catholics, he wasn't about to go without protection, especially considering the high crime rate with the corrupt Boss Tweed and his Tammany Hall gang in control of the city.

“Not many in this place wear guns,” Thomas noted. “Yet you do.”

“Habit.” But having as little interest in discussing his painful past as a Texas lawman as Thomas did in discussing Prudence Lincoln, Rafe changed the subject. “Ash is making me get a suit. You'll need one, too, if you expect to eat in the dining room at the castle.”

“What is this castle?”

“Northbridge. A big stone house that the Wallaces have in Scotland. You do know Ash is the Earl of Kirkwell, don't you?”

“I know he has many names and one is earl.”

“Earl is more of a title. Like chief.”

“He still has too many names. And he likes to wear a skirt.”

“Kilt.” Rafe grinned down at the Cheyenne. “And maybe as payment for taking you with us to Scotland, he'll expect you to wear one, too.”

“Ho. I will not do it.”

Rafe laughed. “We'll see. Let's start with a suit first. And real shoes.”

Although Thomas had set aside his war shirt and leggings in favor of denim trousers, a collarless work shirt, and a blue cavalry jacket with the sleeves cut off—God knows where he got that—he still wore knee-high fringed moccasins with a long, sheathed knife laced on the outside. Even with the shorter hair, he stood out like a two-headed wonder among these city dwellers.

Opening the door of a tailor's shop, he ushered the Indian into the dark-paneled store with bolts of fabric stacked on shelves. Several headless, life-sized, wirework figures modeled fine suits of clothing, including boots.

Thomas stopped inside the door and glared at the figures. “I do not like this place,” he announced, and turning, left the shop.

With a sigh, Rafe followed him. “I know someplace you will like,” he said, falling in beside the Cheyenne as they walked up Fifth Avenue toward the Central Park project. “They have lakes and bridges and even a sheep meadow.”

“Good hunting, then?”

Rafe looked at him in alarm. “No. No hunting. Not anywhere in the city.”

“Then why do they keep sheep there?”

“For show.”

“Like Pringle.”

“Exactly.”

Pringle was the ancient butler at the Sixty-ninth Street brownstone owned by their hostess, Mrs. Throckmorton. He and Thomas had gotten off on the wrong foot upon their arrival the previous night when Pringle had answered their knock, saw the Indian on the steps, shrieked, and tried to slam the heavy front door in his face.

Then this morning, Ash had informed them that the old codger would be going with them to Scotland as his manservant, which amused Tait Rylander no end. Apparently he had dealt with Pringle before. Rafe figured it was only a matter of time before something dire happened. And not to Thomas.

After a long traipse through the park, he and Thomas were back at Mrs. Throckmorton's brownstone, waiting impatiently for Pringle to answer their knock. The haughty butler was as slow as Christmas.

When the door finally opened, the old man glowered at Thomas, then hiked his pointed nose. “Yes?”

“Just open the door,” Rafe snapped.

“And who may I say is calling?”

“The man who's keeping this Indian from slitting your throat.”

With an affronted glare, Pringle opened the door.

Ash was crossing the entry as they stepped inside. When he caught sight of Thomas, he stopped dead. “You cut your hair.”

“But I will not wear a skirt.” Elbowing Pringle aside, the Cheyenne stalked toward the kitchen at the back of the house.

“Kilt,” the Scotsman called after him. “And I dinna ask you to.” Turning back to Rafe, he asked what that was about.

“He wants to look white. Says he's tired of being stared at.” Rafe unbuckled his gun belt, and ignoring Pringle's sniff of disapproval, hung it on the hall tree by the door. “He wouldn't let the tailor fit him for a suit, either.”

“Bluidy hell.” Realizing the butler was listening to their conversation, Ash waved him away. “Dismissed, Pringle.”

The butler made a deep, sneering bow. “Thank you, your lordship. Should you have need of me, I shall be in the back, scraping manure off your boots.”

Ash rounded on him. “The old lady is making me take you to Scotland, you simpering sod, but that doesna mean you'll arrive there safely. Do ye ken?”

Pringle's nostrils flared. His faded blue eyes narrowed mutinously below his bushy white brows. “I do, indeed, sir. Your lordship.” Another smirking bow.

As the muttering butler shuffled down the hall, Ash grimaced and dragged a hand through his gray hair. “This is becoming a bluidy circus, Rafe. I'm saddled with that bumbling ass, my wife's acting strange, and now Thomas wants to be white. By the bones of Saint Andrew, I've a mind to go by myself.”

Rafe didn't respond.

“Aye, well, too late for that. The vouchers from the White Star Line came this morning. We leave in a week on the
Oceanic.
Since I dinna want Thomas—white or not—prowling about in steerage, you and he will be sharing a cabin next to ours. But if he expects to eat with the other first-class saloon passengers, he'll need a proper suit of clothes, including neckwear, and real boots.”

“Have your wife and Mrs. Rylander tell him. He responds better to ladies.”

“Aye.” Ash flashed a broad grin. “They'll bring him to heel in no time.”

* * *

A week later, Rafe stood in the cabin he would be sharing with Thomas and looked around at the luxurious accommodations. Two tidy beds, a private lavatory with a tub that boasted hot and cold running water, an electric bell to summon the steward, bureaus, a built-in closet with a mirror, and a promenade deck right outside their window. Impressive. Rafe had read the brochure that came with the tickets, and knew the
Oceanic
was the latest design in oceangoing steamships. In addition to the hot and cold water and promenade deck, it also carried four masts for auxiliary sails, twelve boilers, a four-cylinder compound engine, and had an iron hull. They were traveling in class.

Thomas was less impressed. “Is that the only window?”

“Better than belowdecks in steerage with Pringle and the other single men. They don't have any windows.” Opening his trunk, Rafe began transferring clothing and books to the bureau built into the wall beside his bed.

Thomas peered through the small window at the chairs lined up along the open deck. “I will sleep out there.”

“Not allowed.” As he unpacked, Rafe watched the Cheyenne pace the small cabin. He knew it was difficult for the Indian to give up the freedom he was accustomed to, and could only guess at how difficult it must be to straddle two cultures. But Thomas had chosen this path, so Rafe would try to make the transition as painless as possible—mostly for himself. He didn't want to listen to him pace all night. “I thought you wanted to act white.”

Thomas turned to look at him.

“Then you'd best get used to sleeping indoors, and wearing proper clothes, and following the rules. Can you do that?”

Muttering in Cheyenne, Thomas slouched onto the bed against the far wall.

Ignoring the glare in those dark eyes, Rafe resumed unpacking. He respected Thomas. Liked the man's steadfast loyalty and assured manner. But he sensed this whole “white” thing was destined for failure. What would happen to Thomas then?

After he emptied the trunk, he set it in the closet, then stretched out on his bed with one of the books he had borrowed from Mrs. Throckmorton's library—
Rob Roy,
a historical adventure novel by Sir Walter Scott. It was hard reading because a lot of the dialogue was in Scottish, and he had to flip to the glossary for the meaning of the words. But since he would be visiting Scotland for a month or two, he wanted to get a feel for the people.

“You brought many books,” Thomas said after a while.

Rafe nodded absently. Then an idea came to him and he lowered the book. “Can you read, Thomas?”

There was a long pause before the Indian answered. “When Black Kettle was my chief, white missionaries came to our village with a book about your Christian god. They offered to teach us to read it. I tried. But I was young, and found the lessons boring, so I stopped going. Later, the bluecoats came with the papers they called ‘treaties'. I could not read them, but I wanted to believe they would keep the People safe. We soon learned the words written there were false.

“Then Prudence Lincoln came.” He looked toward the window, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I was a much better student with her.” The smile faded. “But none of her books spoke of the People. So I have not read since she left.”