The Arrow Keeper’s Song (44 page)

Emmiline had observed her parents grow apart. They kept to their separate bedrooms and maintained an icy truce for the benefit of the public and the smooth, orderly running of the household. Appearances had to be kept up; after all, there were Allyn's political ambitions to be considered. But the family was falling apart, like a garment unraveling at the seams. Emmiline couldn't remember when they were last whole and happy, but she thought it must have been years ago, perhaps when they'd been a poor Indian agent's family and the prospects of black gold had yet to be discovered on the tribal lands.

Margaret muttered a word of thanks as Consuela cleared the plates and then, with a smile in her daughter's direction, suggested Emmiline pay her a visit later.

“You can help me choose some things to pack in my trunk,” Mrs. Benedict added.

“Your trunk?” Allyn spoke up, his interest piqued by this latest revelation. “Are you leaving?”

“It has been a while since I've seen my sister in New Haven. Oh come now, Allyn, don't look so shocked. It isn't as if you'll miss me. No doubt you'll find someone … uh … some way to pass the time and keep yourself occupied. “Margaret kept a friendly expression but her eyes were hard and impenetrable. Her dark-blue dressing gown rustled as she stood. Lamplight shown upon a cameo pendant, where it lay against her bodice, resting between the twin mounds of her breasts. The pendant had been a wedding gift from Allyn, the one treasure he had to offer, having received it from his grandmother. She wore the object more for spite than sentiment, knowing it caused her husband discomfort, reminding him of vows he had failed to honor. She turned and left the room.

Allyn was in no mood to call her back. Emmiline slid her chair back and started to rise, intending to follow her mother upstairs.

“Just a moment, young lady,” Allyn said.

“Yes?” Emmiline settled back, cautious, and folded her hands in her lap.

“What was the purpose of that little show today? And don't feign innocence with me. You abandon your friends and hurry to be with Tom Sandcrane. My God, what were you thinking of?”

“I was thinking how handsome he still is. Maybe I was thinking of what we did to him, and I wanted to … make amends.”

Benedict shook his head in disbelief. “He's come here to destroy us. And you welcome him home.”

“He cannot do us any harm. Anyway, I'm not so sure we're the reason he has returned.” Emmiline toyed with the table-cloth's lacy fringe as she spoke. “You know, I think he still likes me a little.”

“Dammit, girl, we have a place, our position to maintain.” Allyn rose and leaned over the table, propping himself on his hands. “Once all the wells are in and producing, we can move to Tulsa and leave Cross Timbers behind forever. With a sound financial footing I might even run for territorial governor. Any indiscretion on your part could doom those chances.”

“Isn't it a bit late for you to be worrying about indiscretions?” the young woman asked.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Allyn drew himself upright, his cheeks red, his backbone arrow straight, indignant that his daughter should even hint of impropriety on his part. “You will stay away from Tom Sandcrane—is that clear? You will do as I say.”

Allyn sensed something standing to his left by the mahogany sideboard and china cabinet, whose cut-glass doors reflected the light and distorted the reflected images of father and daughter. Benedict whirled around only to find Consuela, who retreated a step before his scathing glare.

“Pardon me, senor, a man to see you. He waits in the kitchen. He says you sent for him.”

“Damn!” Allyn muttered beneath his breath. He looked up as Emmiline rounded the table. The oilman hurried toward her and caught her by the hand. His tone and temperament changed dramatically, growing instantly conciliatory. “Sweetheart … wait. Listen. I'm saying all this for your own good. We have come so far. We have money and power and prestige … who knows what we can accomplish? Granted, each of us has made some mistakes … some errors in judgment along the way. But that's to be expected.”

Allyn placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes, wondering where the time had gone and how his daughter had so swiftly matured into such a beautiful woman. “I cannot seem to make your mother understand. But we are alike, you and I. Bear with me a little while longer. I will make it up to you and your mother. I promise.”

Emmiline relaxed beneath his touch and, with a toss of her head, nodded. He was right. They
were
alike. And for that reason she had long ago resolved to learn everything possible about the oil business and how to make her way in a world of men. “Very well, Papa. I would never do anything to embarrass you.”

“That's my girl,” Allyn said, hugging her. “I'm only thinking of you and your mother and brother.”

Emmiline smiled and hugged him, and because father and daughter were indeed so much alike, she did not believe him for an instant.

“I told you never to come here,” Allyn said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. It was a broad, well-lit room with one wall dominated by a cast-iron stove that featured an assortment of hot plates and two ovens, and even a compartment for smoking a slab of beef brisket. The heavyset man helping himself to coffee was none other than Jerel Tall Bull.

“I heard you wanted to speak to me.”

“For heaven's sake, in the law office next door. Not here in my house.”

“Ah … in one place it's business, the other makes us friends.” Jerel's black woolen coat was spattered with moisture where the snowflakes had melted on his shoulders. He gulped the coffee, seemingly immune to its burning effect. “Don't worry, Allyn, no one saw me. It's late, and everyone but a fool like me is home in bed.” He set the mug aside and sauntered over to a pie that Consuela had recently baked and left to cool on a cabinet. Jerel sniffed the pie, then claimed it for his own, digging his hand through the crust and licking the sweet filling from his fingertips, relishing the taste of cinnamon and apple. He offered Allyn a sample. When Benedict made no movement toward him, the Cheyenne shrugged and continued to eat.

“When you are finished trying to intimidate me, we'll have our say and then you can be on your way,” Allyn told him.

Jerel grinned. His boots left a pattern of wet prints on the floor as he began to prowl the confines of the kitchen like a caged beast. “You know, I've never seen the rest of your house. Is it as fancy as it looks from the outside?”

“Yes,” Allyn replied, blocking the door into the dining room.

“Maybe I ought to see for myself.”

“Take my word for it.”

“Very well, Allyn.” Jerel chuckled. He scooped out another morsel of pie and ladled it into his mouth with his hand. He returned to the center of the kitchen. “Speak, then. Make me a pretty speech, partner.”

“No doubt you have heard Tom Sandcrane is back.”

“Apparently from the dead,” Jerel added.

“He has no proof of anything concerning how my company ended up with the oil fields. Indeed, my actions were legal and aboveboard—nothing more American than getting the jump on the competition. But some might say I misused my position as Indian agent. As least a man like him could make it seem so, if he was to talk long enough and loud enough.”

“Which is where I come in,” Jerel said, tossing the remains of the pie aside and wiping his hands on a towel “First I was a sooner, helping to insure your company had claim to the oil land before the rush. Then you want me to send my men out looking for Willem Tangle Hair. And now you want me to do your killing for you. But I'm not good enough to walk through your door.”

“Spare me your platitudes,” Allyn said, refusing to be cowed. “You've been well paid for your services. The percentage I pay you has made you a rich man. Why, you don't even need that damn Panther Hall to live comfortably and well.”

“Every man needs his kingdom,” Jerel said. “And my door is open to anyone. As you well know.”

Color crept to Allyn's cheeks but his expression remained firm. “I'm waiting for your answer.”

Jerel shrugged and walked around the table until he came face-to-face with Benedict. When he spoke, his breath fanned the oilman's cheek.

“I'll kill Sandcrane. But not for you,
ve-ho-e
. Not for you. What lies between Tom Sandcrane and me is more than you will ever understand.”

Allyn was somewhat taken aback by the man's words and more than a little confused. “Just so long … uh … as he is dead,” he stammered.

“Oh, he will be,” Jerel Tall Bull replied. “And then maybe you will see what real power is.” The man retraced his path to the door and vanished into the night. Allyn maintained his composure until his uninvited guest had departed; then he sagged into the nearest chair.
What the hell was that about?
he asked himself. Then again, maybe he didn't want to know.

After several minutes the man bestirred himself and left the kitchen, made his way through the house, and climbed the wide stairway until he reached the spacious hall. He noticed that the door to Margaret's bedroom was slightly ajar and could see her shadow as she moved about the room. The door opened at his touch and he entered the room. Margarite was busy arranging a layer of clothes in her trunk and did not notice her husband's intrusion until he spoke.

“Then your mind is really made up. There is no way I can talk you out of this. Uncle Maynard could wait another couple of months. Then perhaps we could all pay him a visit.” He took his time crossing to her, reaching out to put a hand on her arm.

“No. Don't touch me.”

“I'm your husband.”

“Oh … how could I have forgotten?” Margaret said, drawing away. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks moist. She rubbed the tears away with the back of her hand.

“I know I have made some mistakes, but all that is in the past. Oklahoma will be a state one day. I could be someone important here; I want you at my side.” He caught her by the arm and brought her toward him. “Stay here. I need you, Margaret.”

She studied his finely chiseled features. How handsome he was, standing close to her, so earnest—why, he even sounded desperate. How utterly convincing. Indeed, there was no limit to how bright his star would shine. How unfortunate the luster was lost upon her.

“Then you will need me even more when I return,” she flatly replied. “If … I return.”

His gaze hardened, the room grew chill. The veins in his temples throbbed as he sought to control his anger. His fingers dug into her arms.

“You're hurting me,” Margaret said. Her protest seemed to have no effect. “Allyn …” His lips were pale now, his breathing heavy. “Allyn!”

He blinked, then focused on her, suddenly aware of what he was doing, of her pain; then the rage left him and he released his hold. She slumped to the bed, rubbing her arms, fighting back her tears.

“I'm … sorry,” Allyn stammered, and turned away from her. He hurried from the room, recoiling from that awful moment and from all that he had become.

He descended the stairs two at a time, threw open the doors to the house, and rushed outside into the cold and the darkness. His breath came in gasps until his lungs hurt from the freezing air. He stared at his hands, then brought them to his face. “No, no, no,” he groaned. Margaret's wide-eyed, frightened expression mingled with another in his mind. Charlotte White Bear, comely and willing at first, attracted to his wealth, eager to satisfy his carnal needs, then accusing him of abandoning her, threatening, then frightened, and at last pleading for him to stop. He stumbled forward and leaned against one of the stone lions flanking the porch steps. Gradually he regained his composure. The images faded from his mind. Slowly exhaling, he admired the formidable-looking house and the trappings of wealth and prestige it represented. The house beckoned, the amber glow seductive and inviting, reminding him of his purpose and his need for courage. Allyn roused himself, and, shedding his guilt, the man gathered his thoughts and turned toward the house, drawn irrevocably by the siren song of his own greed.

“Talking with you is like watching snow fall,” Tom said, standing inside the house, his features framed by the back-door window. Large white flakes drifted out of the stygian sky. It was a halfhearted snowfall, a pronounced precipitation trailing off after a few minutes, becoming a few scattered flakes, abandoned to a sudden gust of wind.

He had just finished recounting the vision he had experienced in Cuba, when he'd hung poised between life and death and at last, with the help of the Sacred Arrows, vanquished the wraith-hawk. “It was then I knew … the Maiyun had chosen me. I was the Keeper and must one day return to Cross Timbers. Sometimes a destiny can be written.” He turned and leaned against the doorsill. “First I had to wander a bit, sort of retrace my steps, I had to see the white man's world with my new eyes.”

“Our world isn't all bad,” Joanna remarked.

“No. But we must walk the new world as Cheyenne. Without our heritage, without the voices and the songs and the mystery, we are lost, we are nothing more than one of those ice crystals, lost in the dark, vanishing with the sun.” He ambled forward and stood near her. Lamplight added a reddish luster to her auburn hair. Her eyes were like dream catchers, able to hold a man's soul. “So tell me, Doctor, do you think me mad?” He continued on toward the front of the infirmary, checking the empty rooms, following the hall into the library.

“If you are, then I share the illness,” Joanna called after him. The whiskey had done its work, leaching the chill from her bones and loosening her tongue. The door to her bedroom was open, and she could see the corner of her brass-frame bed and an inviting glimpse of her turned-down quilt. She shoved the bottle aside before the potent drink affected her will. She liked Tom Sandcrane, maybe even more than “liked”; she felt drawn to him by some force she could not put a name to. The emotions she was experiencing made her all the more determined to keep her senses clear.