Eagle’s Song
Authors: Rosanne Bittner
Eagle’s Song
Rosanne Bittner
Copyright © 2013, Rosanne Bittner
FROM THE AUTHOR …
Eagle’s Song
is the continuing saga of the Monroe family, book #7 in my
Savage Destiny
series. When I wrote and sold the first book of this series,
Sweet Prairie Passion
, I had no idea the story of the half-breed, Zeke Monroe, and the sixteen-year-old girl he married, Abigail Trent, would lead into such an epic family saga as had emerged by the time I wrote book #6,
Meet the New Dawn
. By then the characters in this dramatic unfolding of the settling of the West and its effect on the American Indian had become as real to me as my own relatives. I “lived” with them through forty-five years of tragedy and triumph.
Those of you who have followed this series know these characters well, but for those who are not familiar with them, I assure you that you can enjoy
Eagle’s Song
with no confusion. As each character emerges, you will learn enough about him or her to go forward, moving into two new love stories involving two of Zeke Monroe’s grandsons.
Eagle’s Song
will carry both new and past readers into a new era for the Monroe family, continuing their quest to carry on the pride they all feel in being the sons and daughters and grandchildren of a man and woman who risked their very lives to settle in a new land and to preserve the heritage of the proud Cheyenne.
I hope these books help readers understand and appreciate
America’s dramatic history, the strength of those who settled this land, not just physically, but their strength of character, their willingness to die for what is right. For the Monroe family, that strength is carried on through the children and grandchildren of one man who was a legend among the Cheyenne to whom he was related through his mother, and also in the white man’s world. Zeke Monroe, Lone Eagle to the Cheyenne, lived in a time when a man could mete out his own justice, and when a man, especially a half-breed, had to fight his way through life in order to survive and protect his own. Zeke, more Indian than white, lived in two worlds, but finally chose to live as a white man because of his magnificent love for a young white woman he met when he scouted for a wagon train in 1845 … his Abbie-girl.
It was this love that carried Zeke and Abbie through thirty years of watching a changing West, through having seven children and many grandchildren.
At the end of book #6, Abbie, living and teaching on a Cheyenne reservation in Montana, was planning a family reunion, to be held at the old homestead, a ranch in southeast Colorado along the Arkansas River, now run by Zeke and Abbie’s daughter, Margaret, and her husband, Morgan Brown. This will be the first time for all of Zeke’s children and grandchildren to be together in many years. Because so many readers wanted me to write about this reunion, I decided that was how I must begin this continuing family saga. Abbie hopes and prays that her “prodigal son,” Jeremy, will come. For seventeen years Jeremy has lived apart from the family, denied his Indian blood; and now he is afraid to see them all again, not sure how, or if, he will be welcomed … especially by his older brother, Wolf’s Blood, the firstborn, the son closest to their father, the
very “Indian” son who will not easily forgive Jeremy for deserting the family and breaking his father’s heart.
Come with me now and meet the Monroes. Come into Abbie’s heart and live with this woman, still strong and lovely in spite of her years; feel her pride and great love for her family … and feel Zeke’s presence as the family comes together and walks forward into new challenges, new loves, new beginnings; their spirits lifted by the winged eagle to new tomorrows.
He comes, in the spirit of the eagle,
Floating on heaven’s breath,
Circling over loved ones,
Watching,
Guiding,
Waiting …
Waiting for his Abbie-girl …
June, 1887
A tingle went through fifteen-year-old Arianne Wilder’s whole body. Did Hawk have any idea how she felt when she was near him? She hated it when school was dismissed for the summer, because that meant she could not see the Indian boy every day. At least school gave her an excuse to be near him.
She watched him now from a distance, peeking around the back side of a barn to see him exercising a horse, a handsome Appaloosa, one of many fine horses raised by his father, Wolf’s Blood. “These Cheyenne are good at breeding fine horses,” her brother had told her. Drake Wilder was an agent here at the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation, and after their parents had drowned a year ago when a passenger ship sank on Lake Michigan, Drake had brought her here to live with him and his wife. Arianne’s heartache over losing her parents had been soothed somewhat by the diversion of coming to live on a reservation, seeing a people totally foreign to her, so mysterious and fascinating.
Every day had been an adventure, a source of wonder, of learning not to be afraid of the Indians, who, she had discovered, were just as human as her own people. Somehow she had thought they would be savages,
ready to scalp her at any moment. Some did have that look in their eyes, some of the older ones, like Hawk’s father, Wolf’s Blood, who had lived through the days of making war. Wolf’s Blood’s uncle, Swift Arrow, had even been a part of the Custer massacre.
Swift Arrow was a half brother to Hawk’s now-deceased grandfather, Zeke Monroe, called Lone Eagle by the Cheyenne. Some white men had called him Cheyenne Zeke. Swift Arrow was now married to Zeke’s widow, Abbie Monroe, Hawk’s beloved grandmother. It seemed strange to Arianne that an ageing white woman would marry a full-blood Indian man like Swift Arrow, let alone keep her first husband’s last name; but then Swift Arrow had no Christian last name, so Abbie continued to call herself Abbie Monroe. Besides, people said Abbie’s only true love was Zeke Monroe.
There was so much more Arianne wanted to know about Hawk’s fascinating family … so much she wanted to know about Hawk himself, surely the most handsome young Indian man on the reservation! Did she dare walk over there and talk to him? They were friends. He probably wouldn’t care. But then she’d never gone to visit him alone like this, and her brother would be furious if he knew she was here. He’d given her strict orders to stay away from the young Indian boys. He would be sending her away soon to a school of higher learning, though she didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to ever be far away from Hawk. She was glad he was not one of those who’d been sent away to special vocational schools in other parts of the country, where Indian children were forced to cut their hair and wear white people’s clothing and were forbidden to speak their own tongue. Her brother said Wolf’s Blood would not allow any of his children to be taken from him, and because of their white blood, which they got
from their grandmother, Abbie, they were allowed to stay.
She looked around to be sure Wolf’s Blood was not about. He was tall and rather fierce looking. She’d heard Abbie Monroe mention once that her oldest son looked exactly like his father, Zeke. The stories she’d heard about Cheyenne Zeke gave her the chills, and she wondered if they were really true, especially about how skilled the man had been with a big hunting knife he’d always carried.
Whenever Hawk’s grandmother spoke about the man, a wonderful glow came into her eyes. From stories she’d heard from Hawk’s younger sister, Iris, whom she had befriended so she could be closer to Hawk, Zeke and Abigail Monroe had shared a great love, the kind of love Arianne sometimes fantasized about having with Hawk. Hawk’s father was part Cheyenne, his mother a full-blood Apache. She had been dead several years, killed by soldiers back when Hawk and Iris lived with the Apache in Arizona. Hawk’s father had been imprisoned in Florida, but Abbie had gone there to fight the authorities and get her son out of that awful place and bring him and her grandchildren to the reservation here in Montana. Iris said if it were not for Abbie, their father might have died in that prison, and she and Hawk would still be on an Apache reservation, or maybe both sent to the special Indian school in Pennsylvania, never to see their father or Grandmother Abbie again.
Arianne thought what a wonderful, brave, strong woman Abbie Monroe must be. She taught here at the reservation now, but before school was finished for the summer, the woman had talked about a family reunion she was planning. She had permission to take Wolf’s Blood and his family to Colorado with her, to meet
with the rest of the family on a ranch there where Hawk’s father had grown up.
He was going away! Maybe for the whole summer! Maybe her brother would send her to school back East before Hawk returned to Montana. She had to talk to Hawk, tell him that even if she went away, she would never forget him and she wanted to write to him and to come back to Montana someday.
She felt her heart would burst with love at the sight of him, so tall and strong for fourteen, looking more like seventeen. His black hair was brushed out clean and long, hanging over the blue calico shirt he wore, under which she was sure were strong arms. She watched him work the horse, recognizing it as his favorite, one he called Lone Eagle, after his grandfather Zeke’s Indian name. He had a rope around the horse’s neck and was trotting it in a circle inside a corral. She watched him run up to the horse then and leap onto its bare back without the aid of stirrups. Astride the horse, his long hair dancing in the wind, he looked every bit the warrior. She could see him in buckskins, his face painted, a lance in his hand. It was obvious many of the Indians on the reservation still longed for those days, especially Hawk’s father. Many of the men drank too much. Her brother said it was their way of drowning their sorrows. Suicide was common, and her brother fretted over what to do about it.
She watched Hawk do some trick riding. He stood up on Lone Eagle’s back, jumped back down and hung off the side of the horse, jumped from one side to the other. She’d watched the Cheyenne men race and do tricks like that, knew part of it was from days of making war, when they would duck soldiers’ bullets by falling to the sides of their horses. It seemed that to the Cheyenne a horse was just an extension of man, a part of his own body.
Hawk jumped down from the horse and took the rope from its neck, petting the animal as he spoke to it in the Cheyenne tongue. His father had insisted his children remember and use both the Cheyenne and Apache tongue as often as possible. He did not want them to forget, had made them promise to teach their children and grandchildren the Indian language and customs.
She could see Hawk was preparing to leave the corral. This might be her last chance to talk to him before he went into the simple white frame house where he lived, although behind the house was a tipi where his father often went to sleep, or to sit for days and pray the Cheyenne way. People said Wolf’s Blood didn’t like the frame house, but he’d had it built for his white wife, Hawk’s stepmother, Jennifer. She wondered why a man so Indian as Wolf’s Blood had married a white woman with red hair, and it gave her hope that perhaps Hawk would consider doing the same … marry a white girl. Her brother would be angry if he knew her secret thoughts, but she didn’t care.
She took a deep breath, drawing on all of her courage, and walked from behind the barn, pretending she had just now reached the ranch and was casually passing the time of day. “Hello, Hawk!” she called out.
He turned as he was reaching for a bridle. For one quick moment Arianne thought she saw pleasure in his dark eyes. “Arianne,” he said in a casual greeting. He turned and shoved the bridle bit into Lone Eagle’s mouth, reached up and fit the straps around the horse’s ears. “What brings you here?”
Arianne rubbed her arms nervously. “I just … I wanted to know if you’re still going to Colorado for a family reunion.”
“Sure. When my grandmother speaks, everybody listens, even my father, in spite of how ornery he can be sometimes.” He grinned, turning to face her, the reins
in his hands. “Father says that my grandfather, Zeke, could be really mean sometimes, that he killed a lot of men protecting his family back in the old days, and was as wild at times as any warrior. But when it came to my grandma, Abbie, he had no power at all. Whatever she said, that was the rule.”
He laughed lightly, and Arianne smiled in return, feeling tingly all over. “He must have loved your grandmother very much.”
The boy nodded. “I wish I could have known my grandfather better. I was only seven when he died, and he had already been gone several months before that, scouting for the army.” Hawk then turned and patted his horse’s neck, wondering if pretty Arianne Wilder realized the feelings she stirred in him. He’d never thought about girls as being anything more than a nuisance until the last year or so, and in spite of his grandmother being white and his stepmother being white, he knew that for the most part white girls, especially a sister of the reservation agent, were off limits to Indian men. But this one … Damn, she was pretty … But then so were most Indian girls. With secret pride he knew several of them had an eye for him.
“How did your grandfather die, Hawk? I’ve heard so many stories.”
He turned to adjust the bridle. “He had a disease, arthritis. It was crippling him. He was a proud man and did not want to die in bed. He helped the army bring some Cheyenne to Fort Robinson, but there they were mistreated and my grandfather took their side, helped them in an attempted escape. He was shot down.” His voice lowered, full of emotion. “My father still comes close to weeping when he talks about it. He was there. Grandfather Zeke died in his arms. They were very close. Only my father and Grandmother Abbie know where my grandfather is buried, high in the
Rockies.” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes I worry about my own father deciding to die like that. He hates the reservation life. It is hard for him to live this way. And I have seen signs …”
Arianne was surprised he was talking so much, and she felt privileged that she was his sounding board. “Signs?”
“Of that same disease, in my father. He is almost forty. That is not so terribly old, but in winter I can tell he is sometimes in pain, and the joints in his hands swell.”
“Your father seems very strong and agile yet. How old was your grandfather when he died?”
He faced her. “I think he was almost sixty years.”
“Oh, then surely your own father has many years left.”
He nodded and looked around. “Your brother would not want you to be here. You will get me in trouble.”
Arianne shrugged. “I have a feeling you and your father are used to trouble.” She tossed her strawberry blond hair back behind her shoulders, dropping her arms and hoping he would notice her budding bosom. “Besides, I can do whatever I want and have whatever friends I want. I’m here because I like your sister, and I like you, and I … I just wondered how long you’ll be gone. I wanted to say good-bye, because my brother is sending me back East to school in a couple of months. I might not be here when you get back. I wanted to know if … if I wrote you letters … if you’d answer them.”
He studied her blue eyes, the smattering of freckles across her nose. How many stories had he heard from his father about how white women can get an Indian man in trouble without even trying? Wolf’s Blood had married a white woman himself, Jennifer, but she was actually a half cousin to him, the daughter of one of his grandfather Zeke’s white brothers, Dan Monroe,
who used to be an officer in the Western army. Dan was retired now, married to his third wife, Rebecca. His first two wives had died, and Jennifer was a daughter by the first wife. She was a widow when she met Wolf’s Blood, and cousins or not, they had fallen very much in love.
“I suppose I would answer your letters if it would not get you in trouble. Besides, it would just be as friends. Where is the harm in that?”
I wish we could be more than friends
, Arianne thought, but surely boys Hawk’s age gave little thought to anything romantic. “I see no harm in it,” she answered. Why was it so hard to tear her gaze from his? What was he thinking? “I … guess I should go to the house to see Iris. She’s the real reason I came over here, to say good-bye to her,” she lied.
Hawk nodded. Did she know he’d noticed her for months now, noticed how her breasts had changed, how much prettier she’d become in the few months she’d been here? Did she know he wondered how she felt to the touch? What her lips tasted like? “Thanks for wanting to write,” he told her. He turned and petted Lone Eagle again. “Do you like my horse? He is one of father’s finest.”
“He’s beautiful,” she answered, touching the horse’s nose. Lone Eagle whinnied and tossed his head proudly, as though he understood the compliment.
“Would you like to ride him around the corral?”
“Oh, could I? Is he gentle?”
“He is as wild or as gentle as I want him to be.”
Arianne walked around to the side of the horse. “Do you have a saddle?”
He laughed. “Only whites need saddles. The best way to ride a horse is bareback, to feel every muscle and movement. You have to let go of your own spirit,
let it melt in with the horse’s. Feel him beneath you, grab his mane and ride with the wind.”
“But I’d fall off without—” Arianne let out a little scream when strong hands grasped her about the waist and hoisted her up. In an instant she was plunked on Lone Eagle’s back.
“Get your leg over and hold his mane,” Hawk ordered with a grin.
Red-faced, Arianne swung her right leg over the horse’s neck and straddled the animal, her stockinged calves showing beneath the hem of her dress. “Hawk, I’m not wearing riding britches.”
“So?” He kept hold of the reins. “Grab his mane and hang on. Father says white women are always too concerned about what is proper. They do not know how to be free and natural like Indian women.” He began walking Lone Eagle around in a circle, and now that she was atop the muscular, powerful mount, Arianne could not imagine how Hawk did the kind of trick riding he did. She’d always been a little bit afraid of horses, had only ridden sidesaddle a few times. Mostly she rode in buggies with someone else driving.
