Embrace the Wild Land (4 page)

But none of that really mattered. He was a Tennessee man at heart, and Lenny had died for a cause. The cause was Tennessee’s right to make its own laws and decisions. Right now he would simply fight for Tennessee and the South. What happened to the slaves once they were freed would be another matter. And what happened to the Indians was out of his hands now, at least for the time being.

“At last we are alone!” Zeke said with a sigh. He added more wood to the small fire inside their
tipi
to ward off the chill the autumn night would bring. “We always seem to be surrounded by children.”

Abbie smiled and sat down on a bed of robes. “You don’t really mind all those children, now, do you?”

He glanced over at her, at first saying nothing, only thinking how much he loved this woman who had come into his lonely life so many years ago and had brought him so much love and joy. He smiled softly. “You know I don’t. They’re my pride and joy, every one of them special in his own way.”

She began brushing her thick, dark hair. “Are you sure they’ll be all right, Zeke?” she commented, her strong motherly instinct making her want to gather her children at her feet where she could watch over them herself.

“Of course they are. Wolf’s Blood and that wild animal of his are better protection than six men. You know that. Smoke wouldn’t let anyone with evil intentions get within a hundred yards of those kids,” he added, referring to his son’s pet wolf.

“I guess,” she answered, putting down the brush. Their eyes held. At their cabin on the Arkansas River in Colorado Territory, they had the privacy of their own bedroom. But on this journey they had either camped under the stars or erected only one
tipi;
either way, seven small Monroes had slept beside them.

“One Indian custom you’ve never learned is to quietly make love under the blankets even when your children are sleeping nearby,” Zeke teased. “Most all Cheyenne children have heard or even seen their father and mother mating at one time or another. It’s as natural as the animals.”

Abbie reddened deeply. “Those children’s parents grew up the same way,” she answered. “I did not. There are some things about me that will always be white, my husband, and one of them is making love in private.”

He grinned and moved over to kneel in front of her, unlacing the shoulders of her tunic. “Well, you have privacy now, Mrs. Monroe.” Her heart quickened as
he let the tunic drop to her waist and he lightly kissed the fruits of her breasts.

“Zeke,” she said softly, touching his hair. He moved his lips to her neck and gently layed her back, caressing her cheek then with his lips.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked quietly. “You’re as tense as a frightened deer.”

“I am frightened,” she answered. “Are you sure you can handle that man tomorrow? I mean, you’re wounded, and—”

His mouth covered hers tenderly, cutting off her words. The kiss lingered hungrily until he felt her relax and she breathed a soft whimper. This big, fierce man who was her husband and the only man who had ever done these things to her never failed to bring forth great passion from her soul, never failed to be gentle, conscious of her woman’s needs, never failed to bring excitement and satisfaction to their lovemaking. The coming together of their bodies held the special beauty and total pleasure that comes only to those who have shared lives for many years, those who have suffered and wept together, struggled and worked together, played and laughed together, those who know one another’s thoughts, fears, haunting memories and needs.

“Don’t worry about tomorrow when we have tonight,” he whispered passionately. He moved back down over her breasts to kiss her flat belly and pulled the tunic down farther. His lips moving down over secret places known only to Zeke Monroe and over slim thighs, he removed the tunic completely.

He sat up on his knees and just looked at her a moment, drinking in her beauty. Here lay the woman he had invaded when she was hardly more than a little girl, the woman who had turned to him for love and protection so many years ago when she had lost all her family on her journey west, the woman who had sacrificed
everything, even most of her white identity, to be the wife of a half-breed and live among his people.

“I don’t think you’ll ever age, Abbie-girl,” he told her with a teasing smile, as she curled up slightly when his eyes lingered on her nakedness.

“That is only because you see me every day,” she told him. “I’ve changed since I was fifteen years old, and I certainly wasn’t getting younger in the process.”

He shook his head. “If you’ve changed at all, it was only to become more beautiful and to fill out in all the right places,” he told her, removing his clothing. She felt the same old tingle at the sight of his broad, dark shoulders that glowed bronze in the firelight. The many scars did nothing to detract from the virile handsomeness of this rock-hard man who would soon fill her with his life again.

Again he saw the traces of worry in her eyes. “Zeke, I—”

He stilled her worry with a kiss, his strength and power and manly needs, combined with the gentle touch of his big, familiar hands on her bare skin, making her submit as she had always submitted to this man. She whimpered as his fiery kiss drew forth her own desires, and his gentle hands moved over her body, taking in the texture of her silky breasts, the soft skin of her belly and bottom, the welcoming moistness in sweet, warm places reserved only for Zeke Monroe.

Her breathing was deep, her eyes closed as her man took liberties with her body. In spite of the years, the children and the terrible struggles they had suffered together in this harsh land, they still had this. Their powerful love had kept them together and had kept this expression of their love always sweet and beautiful.

“My little virgin child,” he whispered as his lips brushed teasingly against her ear and his hand explored and caressed, bringing forth wonderful passions.
“Nemehotatse,”
he moaned, voicing “I love you” in Cheyenne. Always he had ways to taking her back over the years … back to that first time he had claimed her in the foothills of the Rockies before she was even truly his wife … back to the frightened, lonely woman-child she was that fateful night when she gave herself to the half-breed scout.

That one act had sealed the destiny of Abigail Trent forever. At times it seemed a savage destiny, with all of its hardships and cruelties, and because of the savageness of the very man she had married and of his people. But when they were together this way, there was nothing savage about him, except perhaps his dark skin and fiery eyes and the wanton savageness he drew from her own soul, forcing her to give and give, to arch up to him and cry out for him and grasp his arms tightly, sometimes almost bruising them with her grip when his manliness surged inside of her, filling her almost painfully, claiming again that which belonged only to Zeke Monroe.

He sat up slightly as he took her, running his hands over her breasts and ribs and belly. “You are still so beautiful,” he told her softly, his excitement enhanced by the way she still blushed when he looked upon her nakedness. He came closer again, and she ran her hands over the broad, dark shoulders, touching the gauze still wrapped around his arm. How thin was the line between life and death! He saw the renewed fear in her eyes, and he pushed deeper, telling her with his own eyes and with his body that she must not worry or be afraid, that she should enjoy the glorious, private moment at hand.

Her eyes became glazed with passion and her breathing quickened, and a moment later she cried out with the wonderful explosion his lovemaking brought to her insides. He came close then, enveloping her in his
arms, holding her tightly until their passion was finally spent and their bodies close but limp. It had been a long, tiring day, the strain of the buffalo hunters’ attack quickly taking its toll. Zeke was soon asleep, but Abbie slept fitfully, worried about the knife fight that was to take place the next day, and on which some soldiers were still placing bets.

Four

Winston Garvey traced a fat finger along the map that hung on his wall, following the North Platte, then south through Denver and down to the Arkansas River, east into Kansas Territory and back up to the Platte.

“That used to be Indian treaty land,” he explained to his son. “But thanks to the Treaty of Fort Wise, it’s all been cut down to just a little chunk—here, right here.” He pointed to a tiny square of land in the southeast portion of Colorado Territory, bordered on the south by the Arkansas River. “That’s all that’s left to the bastards. Most of the Cheyenne don’t agree to the new treaty and refuse to abide by it, but it’s been made law, nonetheless, and all that land is open to settlers now. I’m buying up all I can, son. I want you to know all about my affairs. I’m getting on in years, and my empire will one day be yours.”

Charles Garvey’s eyes lit up hungrily. He wanted to know everything there was to know. He wanted to be the richest and most powerful man in Colorado Territory one day, and he wanted a hand in Indian affairs; namely, he wanted a hand in eliminating the Indians completely from Colorado.

“I want to understand, Father,” the gangly and rather homely teen-ager told Garvey. “I want you to be proud of me.”

“I’m already proud of you, son. Soon you’ll graduate high school and go east to college. But I don’t want you getting mixed up in that damned Civil War. If you’re ever going to go to war, it will be against the Indians, not your own kind. Our interest lies out here, son. You remember that. I’ll help you make it to the top some day, Charles. I have the money and influence to do it. Don’t forget I used to be a senator, and some people still call me that. I have a lot of connections in Washington, and some day you’ll be up there helping make the laws—laws that can be designed to rid this territory of every last redskin that stands in the way of settlement and mining!”

Charles grinned. He hated all Indians. They had killed his mother when he was a small boy, and his father had taken advantage of the boy’s memory by instilling in him an ever-growing hatred for every red man of the West. Winston Garvey’s reason was not a desire for vengeance for the death of a young and spoiled wife he had never loved; his reason was purely a desire to possess as much land and power in the West as he could obtain. He had used his son’s fear and hatred of the Indian to further his own plans of conquest. He wanted to be certain that once he was dead, the Garvey empire would live on through his son. It was best to nurture the boy’s hatred of the Indians. No matter that Charles thought it was Cheyenne who had killed his mother, even though his father knew it had been Comanches. It was Cheyennes who were the most numerous in Colorado, so let his son hate them. It would only aid to ensure Charles Garvey would one day design laws to eliminate the bothersome natives of Colorado from their homeland.

“I don’t understand why we can’t just set a bounty on the Indians,” the boy complained, studying the map again. “They are no different from wolves or coyotes or skunks. One is the same as the other.”

“You’re young and eager, son,” Winston answered, patting the boy’s shoulder. “One thing you have to remember if you’re going to be a congressman some day is to always appear to be a great humanitarian. There are ways of fooling the public, Charles, and I will teach you how it’s done. But never voice such emotions in public. Always wait until the
public
voices such feelings to
you
. If the general outcry is to kill the Indians, then you can be safe in declaring open season on them. But it must never be your own idea. Otherwise you’ll get branded as too radical. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The boy nodded. “I understand, but I wish it wasn’t that way. It would be more fun to ride through their camps and rape the women and run a sword through all their damned maggot kids and shoot the men on sight.”

Winston chuckled. “Patience, my boy! It isn’t that easy.”

The boy shrugged. “It would be if I were in control.” His eyes gleamed, and his cold smile gave even his father a chill. Winston walked around behind his desk.

“You been making any headway with Jim Danhart’s girl?” he asked, suddenly feeling he’d better change the subject.

Charles made a face. “She’s too stuck up.”

“Her father is a big rancher. Owns a lot of land.”

The boy walked to look out a window. “So what? I don’t need her kind. Besides, her kind gets serious, and I’m too young to get serious. I have an education and a career to think about first.” He knew in the back of his
mind the real reason Susan Danhart wouldn’t look twice at him, yet he could not bring himself to admit it, for he was Charles Garvey, rich and able to have whatever he wanted. So what if he was homely? Girls should want to be with him just because of who he was. “I prefer the whores at Anna’s place,” he added.

Winston chuckled. “Can’t blame you there, son. Those ladies can show a young boy a real good time.”

The boy turned. “All except Anna. She’s the one I want, but she won’t sleep with me. I don’t think she likes me.”

Winston lost his smile. “I’ll talk to her. She shouldn’t shun you that way. Who does that bitch think she is?”

Charles grinned. “That’s the way I look at it. I want her more than the rest of them. She’s the prettiest. But just because she’s the boss of the place, she says she doesn’t have to sleep with me if she doesn’t want to.”

Winston frowned. There had been a time when he all but owned Anna Gale. He had brought her west years ago, all the way from Washington, D.C. He had set her up first in Santa Fe, then moved her to Denver when gold was discovered there and the men flocked to the Rockies. Anna Gale was rich now because of him. But she knew the secret—the terrible secret that had released his power over her. His son must never know what Anna knew: Winston Garvey had a half-breed son. Garvey had tried to find out who the child was and who the mother was, for unknown to his son or second wife, the man had slept with several different Indian women over the years, most of them by force. But Anna swore she knew nothing more but that the child existed. Whoever had told her about the child had given her no details, and she would not tell Garvey where she had received her information. Garvey did not doubt that the child existed, and if Charles found out his father had layed with a squaw and had produced
a half-brother that was part Indian, the already slightly demented boy would go crazy with the horror of it.

“Damned bitch!” Garvey muttered to himself over Anna Gale. If he ever found out who and where the boy was, he’d have him murdered. He looked up at Charles, his hope for the future. “I’ll talk to her,” he told the boy. “Anna and I go back a long way.” He rose. “I hope you understand why I visit that place, son. You’ll do the same even after you’re married. Your stepmother isn’t very—well, some women don’t understand a man’s needs, Charles. So I go to Anna’s place on the side. Lots of men do that. Most times their wives know about it, and they don’t care because it keeps their husbands out of their own beds, where they aren’t wanted. That’s what prostitutes are for—to show a man the good time he can’t get at home.”

Charles grinned. “I understand better than you think, Father. A wife for appearances, and a whore for sex.”

Winston guffawed, his huge stomach shaking and his fat face reddening. “Son, you’re a gem! A chip off the old block! You’ll do fine, my boy—just fine.” He returned to his desk chair, still chuckling. “Sit down, son. We have some studying to do about Indian legislation.”

“Can I have some whiskey first?”

Winston shrugged. “Why not? If you’re man enough to go to Anna’s place, you’re man enough to drink.”

Charles hurried over to the buffet where drinks were always kept on hand. Winston watched him pour a shot for himself. He was pleased with his son, and he had a feeling Charles Garvey would be more ruthless in obtaining what he wanted than even Winston himself had been. Watching Charles Garvey grow in power was going to be a very interesting pastime. He lit a fat cigar, then offered one to Charles.

“Light up, my boy. Today you’ve talked and acted like a man. I’m proud of you.”

Charles grinned and took the cigar, thinking about Anna Gale. He was accustomed to his father getting him anything he wanted. Perhaps now that he had complained about Anna, his father would make sure she was made available to him. No one refused Charles Garvey and got away with it!

Indian and soldier alike circled around Blade and Cheyenne Zeke, emotions high, as were the bets. Many of the Indians, especially the Cheyenne, had bet everything they owned on Zeke, for they knew well the stories about the great knife warrior. But Blade had earned his own reputation, and he would soon learn whether he had met his match.

The tension mounted as a soldier walked up and handed the leather strap to the two fighters. Indians let out war whoops and shrill cries of excitement as Zeke grabbed the strap and put one end in his teeth, his dark eyes on fire with the excitement of the challenge, his huge frame now a hard, powerful fighting machine. He had prayed all morning, drawing strength and courage from the depths of the spirit world with which he was close, from
Maheo
, who had saved him many times before. He looked as fierce as any warrior could look, with streaks of yellow paint across his forehead, one red streak down his nose and three black streaks on his chin. He was painted for war, even though this battle would be against only one man. His hair hung long and loose, parts of it twisted around eagle feathers, which were believed to bring courage and power to their owner. He wore only a loincloth, with two Crow scalps hanging at his waist, along with the big, menacing blade that had earned him a reputation throughout the West.

Wolf’s Blood watched with a pounding heart as Blade put the other end of the strap into his own teeth, while two soldiers strapped each man’s left hand behind his back and the two opponents glared at each other eagerly. Blade was nearly as big as Zeke, but his belly was paunchy, not hard and flat like Zeke’s. Yet Zeke had told his son many times never to judge a man by his appearance. Blade looked soft, but Wolf’s Blood knew Zeke would not take it for granted that the man was not as fast or as strong. The reputation he bore should not be taken lightly. But Wolf’s Blood knew that if Blade should prove to be as skilled as his father, Zeke Monroe had one advantage. The man called Blade had attacked the Cheyenne and Zeke’s family for no reason. Zeke Monroe’s wife or one of his children could have been killed. That was all the provocation Zeke needed to give him an edge over his opponent, for vengeance was as important to Zeke as breathing.

The lieutenant gave a signal to start, and the circle of onlookers widened but grew noisier as the two opponents pulled on the strap in their teeth and circled, both simply eyeing one another the first few seconds. Wolf’s Blood wondered what was going through his mother’s mind as she waited back at camp with the rest of the children. Surely she could hear the crowd. Surely she was terrified. Yet she had said nothing to Zeke. She had not argued against the fight, even though to a white woman it must seem barbaric, as some whites described the Indian ways.

But those people simply did not understand the Indian code of ethics, the Indian man’s need to prove his strength and skill, or the Indian’s compelling need for revenge. Somehow his mother understood all of that and accepted it. She understood that what Cheyenne Zeke was doing at this moment was only one part of the man, an extension of his Indian religion and his Indian
instincts. And Abigail Monroe had seen her husband use his knife before.

“Rip him open!” a soldier shouted to Blade as the man took the first swipe. Zeke sucked in his belly and arched backward, barely escaping the tip of Blade’s knife. The strap they held in their mouths was about three feet in length, giving both men enough room to dart back, yet close enough that the heat of the challenge was intense. Both men knew the rule. If he let loose of the strap he would automatically lose, and the opponent had the right to end his life. The left arm could not be used in defense.

Zeke bent forward slightly then, his dark eyes boring into Blade and planting a cold fear in Blade’s soul. As the two men again circled, Zeke’s long hair and its eagle feathers danced with the movement of his lean, supple body, his broad, dark shoulders tensed into balls of muscle. Everything about him was savage then. There was no Tennessee man there, no gentleness there, no part of the man Abbie knew in private, no sign of the lonely, abused little boy that still lurked deep in his soul.

He took three quick slashes, and Blade could not keep away from the third one, which drew a red line across his chest that quickly grew darker as blood met sunlight. The crowd grew wild at the sight of it, and beads of sweat broke out on Blade’s forehead. Blade came back quickly with a kick to Zeke’s ribs. Zeke grunted, and Blade came at him again, slashing wildly.

“Keep back, Father!” Wolf’s Blood yelled amid the roar of the onlookers, his fists clenching as his own tension became almost unbearable. Zeke avoided the blade after the first swipe, which slashed across his lower abdomen. Wolf’s Blood’s eyes widened in horror at first, but it looked as though the cut was not deep. Still, opening Zeke’s skin had given Blade more faith.
He came at Zeke again. Zeke pulled back while he slashed at Blade’s arm, putting a deep cut into the muscle of the man’s upper arm and ending Blade’s momentary flurry of swipes.

The crowd was delirious with the excitement of the fight, the Indians screaming out war cries and jumping up and down, slapping one another on the back and laughing, the soldiers yelling at the top of their lungs for Blade to “Kill the damned breed,” their fists shaking in the air. Zeke and Blade circled again, both regaining their breath and planning their strategy. Wolf’s Blood was glad Abbie was not there to see Zeke bleeding. She would want to stop the fight and fix his wound, but this fight could not be stopped. Only the death of one of the combatants would end it.

Blade kicked at Zeke’s stomach where it had been cut, then grinned wickedly at the look of pain on Zeke’s face. But Zeke instantly and surprisingly kicked back, several well-aimed, acrobatic movements from a man who was born loving to wrestle and fight. Wolf’s Blood found himself screaming at the top of his lungs along with the others as both men darted in and out, waving knives, gauging one another more than actually trying to do physical harm. The secret was to wear down the opponent, cut him enough to cause the loss of blood, work him enough and bruise him enough to make him weak, then take advantage.