River of Love, page 42
Then she heard the familiar voice outside the door as he came up the stairs. She heard Anna laugh, and again her chest felt heavy with the agony of knowing he had slept with the beautiful prostitute, and the irony of the fact that the very woman she should hate had been their only help. The door opened, and Abbie stood there frozen for a moment at the sight of them together. But the remnants of jealousy vanished as their eyes held and he quickly walked closer, enveloping her in his arms. He was free.
“Zeke,” she whispered, reassuring herself that he was really there by breathing deeply of the familiar scent of man and leather, feeling his hair brush against her face, feeling the strength of the powerful arms that held her so tightly now, himself not even speaking. Neither of them noticed the door close softly as Anna Gale left them alone and went to her own room, her own body aching to be held by Zeke Monroe. Still, she was totally surprised at how good it could feel to do something decent. But there was still a certain wickedness about her, as well, that made her smile slyly at the thought of how uncomfortable she had made the men at the meeting, at how she knew most of them intimately. An even more pleasing thought was how pale Winston Garvey’s face would get when she told him he had a half-breed son.
Abbie opened her eyes to pain and the blurred red paisley wallpaper of the room at Anna Gale’s whorehouse. Almost immediately her mind rushed to reality, finding it almost cruelly humorous to be lying in a harlot’s bed, the mother of seven children by one man, now possibly unable to give him any more. Any prostitute would be happy to know she was safe from pregnancy, but such a thought only made Abbie feel hollow and useless.
She moved only her eyes, afraid to move anything else yet; and she saw Zeke at the window, standing and gazing at the sky. Surely he longed to escape from this prison that was called civilization, just as his son also longed to go home, to the Arkansas, to the wide plains, to the People. But as always, she came first. Perhaps if the worst had been done, and the doctor had been forced to make her barren, it was best after all. For Zeke had been tortured by the fear of her having any more babies. If that fear was always to be present, perhaps they could never fully and joyfully perform that act that was most vital to their great love.
“Zeke?” she spoke up weakly.
He turned, his hollow, circled eyes telling her how worried he had been about her even surviving the operation. In two long strides he was beside her bed, bending over her, placing a big hand to the side of her face. Somehow his touch always gave her the reassurance and the strength she needed when she thought all was lost. She closed her eyes and a tear slipped down the side of her face. He caught it with his finger before it could go into her ear.
“It’s all right, Abbie girl,” he told her softly. “The doctor says everything went real well and that you’re very strong and everything he left looks good and healthy. Soon as you’re strong enough we can get out of this place and go home.”
She only nodded slightly. “I need … to cry … but it hurts to cry,” she whispered.
“Then don’t cry, Abbie. You’ve nothing to cry about.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Look here at me.”
She met his eyes and knew her worst fear had been met. “I’m … barren,” she said quietly.
He studied her a moment, gently pushing the lustrous dark hair back from her face, loving her for being upset over such a thing after already giving him seven children. There would be eight now, if not for the child Dancing Moon had caused her to lose.
“It’s better than death, Abbie. The doctor said you never would have survived another pregnancy. Is that what you would have wanted, to leave me alone with seven youngsters?”
She closed her eyes again. “No,” she squeaked.
“We all need you, Abbie girl. Need you bad. There’s no more room, no more time and no more money for any more children. You have all you can handle, and if you want the truth, I’m glad I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
She opened her eyes and met the gentle dark eyes of this man who had been her dearest friend and only lover for thirteen years. “Are you sure?”
He smiled softly. “Sure I’m sure.” He ran his hand gently through her hair. “Now we can enjoy each other all we want. Our love can be more free and unplanned.” He gave her a wink. “That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”
She swallowed. “Some men … think … I mean, especially Indian men … don’t want a barren wife. Sometimes they take a second wife … a younger one who—”
He laughed lightly, taking her hands. “Abigail Monroe, you amaze me.” he knelt beside the bed. “Sometimes you talk as silly as that fifteen-year-old girl who chased me all over the place a few years back on that wagon train till she wore me down and got me to make a woman out of her.”
Her eyes widened. “I did not chase you, Zeke Monroe!”
He smiled the handsome smile. “Then why was I so out of breath all the time?” She reddened and he chuckled, studying her lovingly. He gently grasped her chin in one hand. “Abbie, I’ll tell you once and then I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want you fretting over not having any more children. I love you, and your life is worth more to me than any number of children. If this had happened after only one child, it wouldn’t have mattered. What matters is having you beside me in the night, having you around to talk to, knowing you’re my woman and that you love me. A man like me needs your kind of quiet, loyal love. You’ve given me seven children, Abbie, three of them fine sons. I couldn’t ask for more, and I wouldn’t if I could. I have more than I ever dreamed could be possible a few years back after I lost Ellen and our son. I never imagined I could ever be happy again. But you changed all that just by the touch of your hand that first night we met at your pa’s campfire. Now just knowing you’ll live and probably be healthier than you’ve been in a long time makes me a happy man. The doctor did what he had to do for your health, and he asked my permission first. I told him to go ahead. He would have tried something less drastic, but I didn’t want to risk it. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
She watched the firm conviction in his eyes. “I … think so.”
“It was my decision, Abbie. Mine. It was what I wanted because it was the only way to be sure we’d grow old together.” His eyes teared. “I don’t want to grow old alone, Abbie. There’s so much sorrow ahead for the People. I can see it already. I can’t handle that, help them, without the strength I get from you.”
She reached up and traced a finger over the thin scar on his cheek from the old Crow knife wound. “But you’re such a strong man, Zeke … always so sure about everything.”
He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “There’s different kinds of strength, Abbie girl. You know that as well as I, after that time we grew apart when Jeremy was born. We’ve done what was best, and I don’t want you shedding one tear over it. You be proud of the fact that you’ve borne seven beautiful children for your man, risked your life doing it. You’re still my lovely Abbie, my woman, my friend, the mother of my children, the prettiest girl I ever set eyes on. I’ve been so afraid for you, Abbie, living away from civilization, giving up a whole way of life just for me. At least now there’s one less thing I have to worry about.”
“I promised you … I’d give you lots of children … to make up for the son you lost.”
He smiled. “And you did just that. You kept your promise.”
“I never minded, Zeke. I never minded … the pain of birth. You were … always there … and I was never afraid when you were there. You … made a good midwife.”
She smiled lightly and he grinned more, but she quickly bit her lip as a few more tears trickled from her eyes. “Hold me, Zeke,” she whimpered. “I don’t care … if it hurts. Just … bend over and hold me for a little while.”
He carefully sat down on the bed, leaning over and moving one arm under her neck and gently drawing her close so that she could nestle her head against his side. He took a leather pouch from his belt. “Put out your hand, Abbie,” he told her quietly, as she struggled against the sobs that brought so much pain. She asked no questions but did as he asked. She felt something smooth and round in her palm as he emptied something from the little pouch into her hand. “Remember these?” he asked her.
She blinked through tears at the lovely blue stones. “The crying stones!” she exclaimed, staring at the first gift Zeke Monroe had ever given her when she was but a child of fifteen. She remembered how he’d used them to calm a small girl on the wagon train who had been bitten by a rattler, putting the child in a virtual spell as he spun a tale about letting the stones cry for her; and they had seemed to do just that as they began to sweat when he laid them in front of the little girl’s eyes. Later he had given the stones to Abbie, a token of friendship at the time, telling her to always let the stones cry for her.
“I … had these in my parfleche … at home,” she sniffed, “with all my other souvenirs.”
“I know. But I had a feeling … considering the reason we were coming here … that maybe you’d need them.” He folded her fingers around them and wrapped his own big hand around her small fist. “My first gift of friendship. I didn’t know then we would be much more than friends. I loved you even then, Abbie, as I love you now.” He placed her hand against his heart. “Ne-mehotatse.”
She raised her eyes to meet his and knew what had happened was best. “This reminds me … of the time you sewed me up … from that arrow wound,” she told him.
He nodded and their eyes held, each remembering so much. How could so many things have happened in only thirteen years? Indians and outlaws, the sad death of her family. So many were gone now, Zeke’s gracious and patient Cheyenne mother, Red Eagle and Yellow Moon, the little girl Abbie had saved from drowning, her whole family and many of her Cheyenne friends. Gone. But there were the children now … the children would take the place of loved ones lost. At least God had given her seven before she was made barren, and she still had their father, scarred from his many battles, but alive and well, virile and handsome and rock-hard strong as he was the first time she set eyes on him.
“Ne-mehotatse,” she whispered, pressing the crying stones tightly in her hand.
Abbie walked to the door again. How many times a day did she stand there, watching for her son?
“It’s October, Zeke. It’s cold in the mountains.”
“He’ll be along.”
“But he’s only twelve years old. He’s just a baby.”
Zeke sighed and rose from the table where he had been cleaning his rifle. He came up behind her and put strong, reassuring arms around her, hugging her tightly. How frail she still seemed, but her color was good. She had spent eight weeks recuperating in Denver from the operation. It was done. There would be no additional children for Zeke and Abbie Monroe, and he was glad of it. He no longer had to worry about her dying in childbirth.
On their journey home, Little Rock, still injured physically and emotionally from the scrap in Denver, had made the announcement that he would go to the mountains alone to seek a vision and find himself, where he would decide if he was to forever be an Indian and nothing more.
“Twelve years old is only a baby to a white woman,” Zeke told her, kissing the top of her head. “To an Indian it’s close to being a man. He’s strong and independent and willful. He knows how to survive, Abbie. He knows how to hunt and he’s afraid of nothing. This is something he must do.” He sighed. “You knew when you married me, Abbie girl, that it might be this way for one or more of our children. But I understand how hard it is for you—harder than you thought it would be.”
She turned and wept against his chest, the bitter tears of a mother losing her son. In this case it was even more painful, for Little Rock had grown up much too fast. Sometimes it seemed he had never really been a child.
“Oh, Zeke, it seems like nothing is the same,” she sobbed, taking some comfort in the familiar broad chest and the manly, earthy scent that belonged only to Zeke Monroe. “Sometimes I wish … I wish it could be … like the old days. I wish I still had … the old tipi … and we could migrate with the People freely. I wish … there were no cities … no gold, no soldiers and forts and fences! I wish it could be … like that first year … when they were so free and happy … and Swift Arrow and Red Eagle … and Yellow Moon were with us … and your mother. How I miss Gentle Woman!”
Her tears came like a waterfall, for she had not wept over being barren since that first day she awoke after the operation; and that, more than anything else, was something she needed to cry about and get out of her system, even though she had promised not to cry about it. It brought on the terrifying feeling of something being over, finished. He held her tightly for several minutes, his heart aching for her.
“Those old days are gone,” old Deer Slayer spoke up. He had come to live with them, where he could be more assured of food and warmth. His old bones were always hurting now, and with soldiers constantly harassing the People, he could not keep up with all the constant migrating. There seemed to be no real peace for them. The old man rose and limped to the door. “I am glad my days are numbered,” he mumbled.
He walked outside and was immediately surrounded by his several grandchildren. Zeke urged Abbie to look out at them. “Look there, Abbie girl. There goes an old man, surrounded by his grandchildren. Life goes on, Abbie. And things seem to work out. There are always things to cry about. Sometimes there are so many that we forget what we have to be glad about. How many times have we almost lost each other to death, Abbie? Our children are healthy, the ranch is doing well, and we haven’t even heard any more about a railroad coming through here. Did I tell you that a trader who came through here to water his horse told me he’d heard they’d decided to build a railroad way to the north of us?”
She wiped at her eyes. “No.”
“Well, he did. So we can rest easy over that one. All our kids are healthy, and the doctor said your operation went real well and you’ll be just fine. And look at me—all scarred up from old wounds but still strong and meaner than hell.”
She looked up at him and he grinned, bending down to kiss her cheek. “He’ll be okay, Abbie. He’ll be back.”
He urged her to a chair and poured her some coffee. She studied the broad shoulders and the fringed buckskin shirt he wore. She wondered if she would spend the rest of her life waiting for some member of her family to return from danger. He brought her the coffee and sat down to the table to pick up the rifle again. Nearby lay the infamous blade. It seemed violence followed Cheyenne Zeke everywhere. She did not want to think about violence just then.
“Zeke, will you do something for me?” she asked, pulling out a handkerchief and blowing her nose.
“Whatever my woman asks,” he answered.
“Do you realize it’s been years since you played the mandolin for me? Sometimes I almost forget you ever played it at all. Remember when we first met how you used to play it and sing? I need to see the mandolin in your hands instead of a gun.”
He studied her eyes and put the rifle down. “I’d be rusty as hell, Abbie.”
“I don’t care. Remember that Tennessee mountain song you used to sing?”
He smiled. “I made that up. I used to sit and play back in Tennessee, when I’d go to the swamps alone to get away from the white kids.”
Their eyes held. She wanted to remind him he still had a father in Tennessee, but he would only get upset at the subject, and she did not want to spoil the moment. Perhaps one day he would choose to see his white father again, but it was not likely. Whether he did or not, it was his decision.
“Go and get the mandolin,” she told him. “It’s probably awfully dusty. It’s been sitting in the corner of the bedroom for ever so long.”
He sighed and shook his head. “If it will make you happy, I’ll get it,” he told her. He rose and ambled into the bedroom, returning with the long unused instrument and blowing dust from it. He sat down and strummed it a little, tuning the cords to his musical ear. She thought about how beautiful his voice used to be, a surprisingly mellow, soothing voice for such a big and violent man. Now he hummed a little, trying to remember some songs, and the voice was still there. It warmed her heart to hear it again, and in moments all the children were swarming through the door to stare at the strange instrument and listen to its mysterious, haunting tones.
Zeke looked at Abbie, and she was fifteen again as he began the song.
“See the mist a-risin’
Out there upon the hill.
The mornin’ sun’s a-comin’ up,
And dawn is bright and still.”
The children all quickly hushed. The frail little Lillian climbed up on her mother’s lap, and the others sat in a circle around their father.
“I’ve lived on this here mountain
Since I was freshly born.
And there ain’t nothin’ nicer
Than a misty mountain morn’.
“Lord, I know heaven’s pretty,
And death I do not fear.
But I hope that heaven’s mornin’s
Are like the ones down here.
“I’ve lived on this here mountain
Since I was freshly born.
And there ain’t nothin’ nicer
Than a misty mountain morn’.”
He stopped, and the children stared, some of them never having heard their father sing.
