Cherish (44 page)

Rebecca returned her attention to the squaw and noticed how warily the woman was watching Race. Rebecca patted his broad shoulder, then pointed to her wedding ring. “Husband. My husband.” She lightly stroked the woman’s arm. “No harm. Don’t be afraid.”

“Don’t she speak English?” Race asked.

“I don’t think so. Could you try to communicate with her, Race?”

“What’ll I tell her?”

Rebecca cupped a hand over the little girl’s grimy hair. “Tell her she is coming home with us, and that she’ll never have to be afraid again.” She thought for a moment. “That she will be like a sister to us, and her daughter will be our niece. She can help me with the household chores, and she’ll be very happy living with us.”

Race shot her a questioning look. “Rebecca Ann, we
don’t know if she wants a home. It’s temptin’ to do nice things for folks, but you gotta give ’em a choice. You know?”

“Very well, then. Phrase it as an invitation.”

Race spent several minutes speaking to the woman, using his limited knowledge of the Cheyenne tongue and Indian sign language to extend Rebecca’s invitation. When he finally stopped gesturing and grunting, the squaw got tears in her eyes, nodded enthusiastically, and said, “Yes, please, thank you! Little Weasel, she like go.” She motioned with her hand. “With you? Home to Spencer Valley. Little Weasel be big happy!”

Race narrowed an eye at Rebecca. “All of that, and she talks Anglo?” He shook his head. “Women!”

Despite his gruff tone, Rebecca knew Race was touched. Her actions today could never undo the tragedy that had taken Race’s mother, but in some small way, maybe it evened the score, if only by a small margin.

Race chuckled and pushed to his feet. “Well, Pete! Looks like we’re gonna have some new faces at the ranch. What say we haul these stinkin’ carcasses over to the sheriff and head home. It don’t look like we’re gonna make it for that lunch date.” Scooping Zachariah off the unconscious man, Race said, “Is this the one that laid hands on your ma?”

Zachariah nodded.

“I figured.” Race bent and grabbed the man by his hair. “Come on, you miserable son’buck.” As he started to drag the man away, Race glanced back for his foreman. “Hey, Pete! You comin’?”

Pete was still staring at the squaw, apparently oblivious to all else. He had a rather dazed look on his weathered face.

“Pete!” Race barked. “What’n tarnation’s the matter with you. You goin’ deef?”

Pete jerked and seemed to come back to himself. “I’m comin’, boss.” His pale blue eyes still locked on the Indian woman, he smiled slightly. The squaw lowered her lashes, clearly unnerved by his intent regard. Pete slanted a look at Rebecca. “I’ve heard of women bein’ prettier
than sunrise, sunset, and ever’ damned thing in between. But I ain’t run across a female that pretty in a nigh on thirty-five years.” He seemed to focus and realize Rebecca might take offense. “Exceptin’ for you, of course,” he amended.

Rebecca glanced at the squaw, who looked rather ordinary in her estimation. Then she looked at Race, who arched an eyebrow, apparently as bewildered by Pete’s behavior as she was. Then they both smiled. Pete never noticed the exchange. He had hunkered down in front of the frightened squaw and taken her hand.

Lightly caressing the backs of her fingers with his callused thumb, he said, “Ain’t no need to be feelin’ afraid no more, sweetness. Nobody’ll lay a mean hand on you in Spencer Valley. You got Pete Standish’s word on it. You hear?”

The little squaw smiled shyly and nodded. Pete started to stand up, then stopped to cup the little girl’s tear-streaked face in a leathery palm. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you neither, darlin’.” He rubbed at her still wet cheeks. “I’ll be. You’re pert near as pretty as your ma! You know it?”

Pete swung the child up onto his hip. Rebecca’s heart warmed at the gentle expression in the foreman’s eyes. She had a feeling Pete’s days as an ornery, cantankerous, aging bachelor had come to an abrupt halt. After a moment, the foreman set the child back down, patted her head, and smiled kindly at the squaw again.

“Yessir, two right beautiful females, them two are.”

Rebecca pushed erect as Pete grabbed the other drunk and started dragging him toward the street. When the Indian woman stood, Rebecca linked elbows with her, called for Zachariah, and grabbed the little girl’s hand.

“Let’s go home,” she said softly.

Ten minutes later, the Spencers left town, their buckboard a mite overcrowded, but every passenger smiling.

To this day, the folks in Cutter Gulch still tell the story of that long-ago Sunday afternoon when Rebecca Ann Spencer, once a cheek turner and a dyed-in-the-wool Bi
ble thumper, beat the ever-loving hell out of two grown men in the alley next to the general store. Some people claim the poor girl had no choice but to turn ornery, living way to heck and gone out there in Spencer Valley with that ex-gunslinger husband of hers. A quarter-breed Apache, he was, and if rumor was true, meaner than a sidewinder. Kidnapped the poor girl, you know. Reverted back to his Apache ways, they say. When he finally got around to marrying the woman, right and proper, folks say she was eight months pregnant with their third child. Indecent, treating a God-fearing, Christian woman that way, but somehow, no one in Cutter Gulch could work up the courage to tell Race Spencer that to his face, not even the Baptist minister.

Other folks maintained it was the raising of her sons that turned Rebecca Ann Spencer so dad-blamed feisty. Could be true, for sure. Anybody who ever had truck with the Spencer boys could testify on a stack of Bibles that both of those young men had a wild streak a mile wide running through them. After all, how many young men have you known who would dare to kidnap and hogtie the Cutter Gulch schoolteacher, then carry her home on the back of his horse? Zachariah Spencer did exactly that, then married the poor girl the Apache way, giving her no say in the matter at all. Now, if that wasn’t something? And, even worse, the black-hearted polecat got away with it!