Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (37 page)

      
As the prim old lawyer read through the maze of legal jargon, translating to her as he moved along, Carrie could feel his disapproval. Here she was, widowed less than three days, brazenly sitting dry-eyed in his office. It was far too soon to read the will. Everything, of course, went to her. What was she afraid of? Surely not that Noah would have left anything to that half-breed son of his. Jebediah Cooper's sense of propriety was offended. The way he sat ramrod-straight in his chair and even the precise hold his fingers had on the legal document bespoke disdain. Upon finishing, he looked over his steel-rimmed spectacles and affixed her with his cold blue eyes. “I trust everything is quite clear? You and your child are sole heirs of Circle S and all Noah's holdings.”

      
Carrie was not surprised that Hawk had been completely disinherited, not even that Frank Lowery had been omitted after all his years of faithful service. But even the fanatically loyal Mrs. Thorndyke was not given a dime. Noah had never rewarded those who served him.

      
“Since my husband left no provisions for those who worked for him many years, I wish to do so myself. Please have a five-thousand-dollar stipend drawn up for Mrs. Thorndyke and another for Feliz Mendoza. Oh, yes, please don't let anyone know I've added in these bequests, Mr. Cooper.”

      
“Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, Mrs. Sinclair. But then, you are a very rich young woman now. I daresay you can be as generous as you like,” he added piously.

      
As Carrie turned to leave, she paused for a moment and could not resist adding, “You will understand, I trust, if I decline to give a stipend to Charlene Creely?”
Or, on second thought, perhaps I should!
She swept out as gracefully as her enceinte condition permitted, leaving the emaciated old man agape with indignation.

      
When Carrie called Mrs. Thorndyke into the study the next morning to tell her of the inheritance, she had not expected gratitude, but the woman flew into such a rage, it took her aback nonetheless.

      
“After all my years here, running this house, putting up with that insolent savage and that Jameson tramp, this is my reward, a paltry five thousand dollars! You did this, you and that old man Cooper! How did you get him to change the will? Entice him like you did Noah or that Indian?”

      
“I did nothing to change the will. Mr. Cooper is quite impervious to my charms, I assure you, Mathilda,” Carrie said dryly with more than a touch of asperity in her voice.

      
“You did! Mr. Noah would have provided for me, not you, you harlot! He knew you for what you are—”

      
“What I am,” Carrie cut her off sharply, “is Noah Sinclair's widow. My child will inherit Circle S!” Carrie had already begun to think of the baby as hers alone, now that Noah was dead.

      
“It's not fair! He should have married me!” Mrs. Thorndyke fairly shrieked, then unexpectedly burst into tears, her bony fingers clutching the arms of the wooden chair on which she sat. “When that Indian died, he brought that tramp here, her with her fancy airs and flashy looks. I should have been his wife! I would have given him good, decent white children. She didn't, and you won't either. You never loved him, never, any of you...” She subsided into wracking hiccups.

      
Shaken by the unforeseen revelation, Carrie stood up. “No, Mathilda, I didn't love him. He forced me into a marriage I never wanted, but he didn't love me, either. I don't think Noah could love anyone,” she added gently.

      
Mathilda Thorndyke sat rigidly straight on the chair, her face a hideous distortion as she cried, making no attempt to staunch the flow of self-pitying tears. She did not even hear Carrie's words or see her leave the room to fetch Feliz.

      
“Put her to bed and see if you can get her to drink something to make her sleep. When she's rational again, I'll have to dismiss her, I fear. I hadn't planned to fire her, but I think she's too unstable to keep on. The bequest should enable her to live in modest comfort.”

      
“Yes, Carrie, I think you are right. That one is
loco in la cabeza.
” Feliz tapped her head and shivered. “I will get a good, strong dose of sleeping powder.”

      
“Thank you, my friend. I don't know how I'd survive if it weren't for you. Lord, I am tired this morningl·I— Ooh!” Carrie whitened and doubled over in the midst of rubbing her temples with her fingers. Clutching her belly, she swayed toward a kitchen chair.

      
“Senora!” Feliz reverted to formality in her fright. “What is wrong? Is it the baby?” She rushed over and helped Carrie sit down.

      
“No, Dr. Lark said almost two more weeks. It can't be yet.”

      
The older woman scoffed. “Pah! Men doctors. What do they know? A few days one way or the other,
quien sabe
?” She helped Carrie stand and said in a firm, no-nonsense voice. “Now it is you who will go to bed. I will send for the doctor at once.”

      
Carrie managed the stairs and changed into her nightdress under Feliz`s clucking ministrations. After the rotund Mexicaná dispatched a hand to town for the doctor, Carrie's contractions began in earnest. At first they were widely spaced, allowing her time to think. Feliz, assuring her that moving would speed the delivery, supported her as they walked around the room. She considered names as she walked. Noah had already chosen Abel, for his long-dead brother. She had not been consulted. Because having a daughter meant submitting to his bestiality again, she had not wanted to think of girls' names, but had finally decided upon Naomi, for her mother. She never mentioned it to Noah, feeling sure he would be furious to even consider the prospect of a girl child.

      
Now, however, she could choose a son's name, also, if indeed the child was a boy. Of course, there was always the slim chance that it would not be Noah's child at all. That thought pleased her greatly, but she suppressed it, feeling certain she could not bear the disappointment if it proved to be wrong. “No matter if you are Noah's, I will love you and raise you to be a good, loving person. I swear it.”

      
Feliz heard Carrie's whispered words. Just then another contraction came, and the cook held her hand until it passed. She felt such intense sorrow for this beautiful young woman, forced to endure Noah's attentions and now to go through the rigors of childbirth with no memories of joy and love to sustain her.
I only hope you can love the child of that devil-man.

      
Mrs. Thorndyke sat forgotten in the study, wondering what was going on. Hearing, all the commotion in the house, she finally brought herself under control and went into the hall, where she spied Estrella scurrying upstairs. Upon being told of the impending birth, she went to her room to wait.
Now we'll just see if it comes out white or red!

      
By the time Dr. Lark arrived in late afternoon, Carrie's contractions were very close together. Sweat-soaked in the July heat, she dutifully followed Feliz's instructions, kneeling on the bed, panting, relaxing her body to flow with the contractions, not fighting them. It helped.

      
Overhearing Feliz speak to Carrie as he came in the door, the fat man frowned and set down his bag forcefully on the bedside table. “All right,” he made a dismissing motion to the cook, “we've had enough of this superstitious nonsense. Get her to lie down and leave. I'll call you when you are needed.”

      
Carrie's contraction was over, and she looked gratefully at her friend, who was lovingly sponging her face and neck with a cool cloth. “Please, doctor, I want her to stay. She won't be in the way.” Now that she was lying on her back, the pain seemed greater.

      
He harrumphed noisily as he opened his bag. “Just see to it that you listen to me and not that gibberish,” he said pompously.

      
Carrie looked past him and winked at Feliz, who grinned and said, “I will fetch more clean water and linens. I think you will need them soon.” With that she vanished out the door.

      
“How on earth would she know when this child will be born?” he said peevishly.

      
Carrie couldn't suppress a grin as she said, “Maybe because she's had four of her own?”

      
As Feliz had predicted, the final stage of the delivery was imminent. The Mexicana held Carrie's hands and spoke soothingly to her while Estrella scurried about, fetching things for Dr. Lark. A few final stabbing contractions, and through her haze of burning pain and exhaustion, Carrie heard the lusty wail of a baby.

      
“Well, Mrs. Sinclair, you have a son,” the doctor said brusquely. His voice was cold and sarcastic. “I'll finish this delivery, but never again ask me to come to this place of iniquity!” With that he handed the squalling bundle to Feliz after tying off the cord and turning his attention back to Carrie.

      
“Let me see him, please, oh please, Feliz!” Carrie panted as the final contractions expelled the afterbirth.

      
Feliz held the infant, staring down at its tiny face in awe. “Hawk has not been disinherited after all,” she breathed as she wiped away the birth cream. A fierce surge of exultation swept over her, reminding her of the dark Yaqui gods her ancestors had worshipped in Mexico long ago.
It is justice
. Now so much made sense: Noah's black rage, his confining Carrie to her room the past month, Mrs. Thorndyke's renewed spite, and Carrie's fearful case of nerves the whole duration of her pregnancy. Gently she placed the squirming infant in his mother's arms.

      
Before she saw him, she knew. Ignoring Dr. Lark's shocked, indignant show of self-righteous temper, Carrie looked at her son, her lover's son. His thick black hair was straight, his cheekbones set high, even in his infant's face. The brilliant coal-black eyes and coppery skin unmistakably proclaimed him Cheyenne.

      
As her fingertips caressed his tiny face and head, tears began to stream down her cheeks. “Oh, thank God, thank God,” she breathed aloud as relief and joy flooded over her.

      
Proudly, she looked up at Feliz, facing what she knew should be her shame. What she felt instead was joy, pure mindless joy. Would her friend understand or condemn her as the doctor had? Instantly she knew, and it gladdened her heart.

      
“He is a beautiful baby, Carrie.” Feliz's eyes glowed. “He looks just like his father did. I know. I was there when he was born.”

      
“He is an Indian, and most obviously not your husband's! I shall, of course, report this to Attorney Cooper.” With that, Lark snapped his case shut and started to leave the room.

      
Feliz's voice stopped him. “You cannot deny he is a Sinclair, can you, doctor?” His florid face mottled even more darkly at her temerity.

      
“It really won't matter what you tell Cooper,” Carrie said. “The terms of my husband's will are very explicit—I and my child inherit. When he wrote the will, it never occurred to Noah that it wouldn't be his.”

      
Just then Mrs. Thorndyke burst in the room, bridling in rage. “I knew it! This brazen slut, carrying on with that filthy savage! It's indecent, a sin, a black nasty sin!” She advanced on the bed, one bony finger shaking in front of her.

      
Feliz's considerable bulk blocked her progress, and then Carrie cut in with a voice of quiet authority that belied her exhausted state. “Your services at Circle S are terminated, Mathilda. I think the good doctor here will be happy to give you a ride away from this place of iniquity, won't you, Phineas?”

      
Too livid to speak, Lark grabbed Mrs. Thorndyke's arm and practically marched to the door.

* * * *

      
Daybreak the next morning found Carrie propped up in bed, nursing her infant son while Estrella fussed with the sheets and Feliz set up an elaborate and hearty breakfast on the bedside table. As the baby nursed, his tiny fingers clasped and unclasped over the gleaming silver medallion that lay between his mother's breasts. Immediately after her delivery, Carrie had asked Feliz to pry up the loose floorboards beneath the rug and retrieve the beloved talisman from its hiding place. With fingers trembling in love and exhausted happiness, she had placed the medallion once more where it belonged, as surely as she belonged to the man who had given it to her.

      
When Feliz had finished laying out the ridiculous quantity of food, she said, “What are you going to name him, Carrie?”

      
Carrie's eyes took on a faraway look as she recalled a dream from her childhood. It had been a recurrent nightmare to her until now. Now she understood the wolf and the hawk. “I shall call him Peregrine. Perry for short.”

      
Thinking of the fierce predatory breed of migratory hawks, Feliz nodded in approval.

      
Looking down at Perry, Carrie added a brief prayer.
If only we can bring the wanderer back to see his son, little one, if only...

      
In the weeks that followed, Carrie was to learn a series of bitter lessons about running a large ranch as a woman alone, especially a woman fallen under the stigma of consorting with an Indian and bearing a half-breed child. Few people in town remembered Noah's infidelities or cared. He had not been loved, but he had been a rich, powerful white man who had tried to live down the shame of his youthful and ill-advised marriage to a Cheyenne woman. His luck with white wives had served him no better, they sadly clucked.

      
Mrs. Thorndyke, now living in town and working at Cummins's General Store, fanned the fires of lurid gossip. She told any and all who would listen—and most did—that Carrie and Hawk had carried on openly and brazenly, breaking poor Mr. Noah's heart. She was a gold-digging whore who only entrapped him for his wealth. In an area where fear and hatred of all red people was rampant and fighting between hostiles and the army still a reality, it was easy for the discharged housekeeper to win an avid audience for her lies.