Chapter 4
Half a continent away, a young woman hurried along a hallway carrying a pile of bath sheets and two large bottles of liniment.
She was of medium height, but she moved with such carriage and grace that she gave the impression of being taller.
Her hair was a deep, dark brown, just touched with hints of henna that gave it a rich, sable appearance.
Her eyes were a dark, vibrant blue green, almost turquoise.
Until her mother’s recent death, she might have claimed to have lived a happy life, despite the secrets of the past that had haunted them all.
But now…
In the last three weeks, she had faced far more than tragedy.
Horror itself had entered into her life. And surprisingly enough, she had discovered she had the strength to deal with it. Skylar had given her that strength. Skylar had always been there for her. She hoped that now…finally…they were managing to rescue one another.
Outside a doorway, she paused, squaring her shoulders. No matter what was said, she would play her part. Give nothing away. Nothing.
She pushed open the door. He sat there in his specially carved wheelchair, an afghan thrown over his useless legs. Still, he was somehow not a man to be pitied because when he gazed at her, the demons of cruelty and anger and…revenge…were in his eyes.
The doctor stood behind the chair. “Ah, there you are, my dear! The liniment, just as I’ve asked. Good. A number of towels, yes. Ah, there now, dear, fetch the brandy, a snifter for the senator…ah, yes, a good brandy relaxes the muscles, and the body—”
“Doctor,” the senator said, shaking his head sadly. “Brandy, liniment. Relaxed muscles, tensed muscles! What does it matter, when I will never walk again?”
“Courage, now, Senator!” the doctor said. He was a bewhiskered old man. Sabrina thought he was doddering and wondered why the senator had chosen him for his treatments. Because the doctor wouldn’t ask too many questions? She’d been surprised at first that the senator hadn’t called in the police.
But then, if he’d thrown out accusations, he might have had a few accusations thrown back at him.
He was still staring at her. Smiling, a smile that conveyed no humor, no warmth.
It was a chilling smile. One that warned, menaced…
and promised as well. I will have my revenge!
That smile seemed to vow. In my own way, my own time.
And don’t doubt my power. God, no, girl, don’t you go doubting my power.
Perhaps, she told herself, determined not to respond to that smile in any way. If the doctor weren’t there, she might be tempted to laugh, to taunt him in return. You can’t hurt me now, you fool. You can’t hurt me. Skylar stopped you when you tried!
He was a good-looking man. Handsome, dignified. He was always so careful to speak in low, well-modulated tones. His constituents knew him as a kind man, a benefactor to so many worthy organizations, a strong man, always willing to fight.
God, they didn’t begin to know how willing he was to fight or to what levels he would stoop to win whatever it was he wanted. Whom he would hurt.
Whom he might have killed…
She handed him the brandy the doctor had ordered. She stared straight into his eyes as she did so. She didn’t allow his fingers to touch hers as she gave him the snifter. She hoped that God would forgive her for praying that he would be a cripple even when this life ended and he rotted in hell.
She hoped as well that God would forgive her since it had occurred to her to poison him when he had first fallen.
It was Skylar who had made her see that they could not.
Not out of fear for the law or any hangman.
But for their own souls. “No, my God, we can’t.
Don’t you see, we can’t become what he is, we can’t.
We need to beat him in life, don’t you see? ”
The doctor had turned to the table, sorting through towels and liniments. “We shall begin here momentarily!” he said with forced cheerfulness.
The senator kept smiling as his fingers curled around the snifter.
“What a good girl you are, Sabrina!” he mocked. “Such a comfort to me in my distress!”
“I hope you die!” she said in a calm, even whisper.
“But I won’t,” he promised her softly. “I’ll live a long life. And I’ll see to it that I carry out all the responsibilities I have regarding you, my dear. I’ll care for you, I swear it. I do so enjoy caring for you!”
“You’ll never even be able to attempt to touch me again, you bastard!”
“God takes care of the deserving.”
“Yes, he does.”
The senator started to laugh. The doctor turned.
“Sabrina! Ah, doctor! She is, indeed, the delight of my discomfort.” The doctor turned back to his work.
The senator leaned toward Sabrina. She backed away a step.
His face lost the convivial smile that had fooled so many.
His eyes burned. “Now as to the other one…well, she will have her comeuppance. You think you’re so clever.
You little fools think that you’re free…
well, you’re not. She’s dead! That’s what she is.
No matter that you were there with your sweet, glib explanation of events… ”
Sabrina took another step away from him. “I’ll leave you to your patient and your work, Doctor,” she said. She stared at the senator a moment longer, lowering her voice. “You’ll never find her!” she promised very softly.
She turned and exited the room.
The senator watched her go, anger darkening his face. Then he started to laugh. And he looked down at his blanketed knees and then at his feet.
God bless America. Oh, Lord, yes. God bless America.
His toes were twitching. Twitching. Moving. Within a little more time, days…weeks…
He’d be walking again. But no one would know. No one. In fact, she just might be the first to share the joy of his recovery.
When she tried to run.
And he ran right after her.
The fire flickered warmly against Hawk’s face. Ghosts of the past still seemed to dance within it, playing upon his memory.
When his father came for his mother, Flying Sparrow took on the Christian name of Kathryn.
She was still very young herself and very beautiful.
Many warriors had wanted her over the years, but she had chosen to remain with her father, and as a boy, Hawk realized that she had waited.
That she had believed in her heart that her courageous white warrior would return for her.
She had lived for that day and for her son.
She had been Thunder Hawk’s support in all things. He loved her. She was leaving. He was old enough to make choices for himself, yet…
The white man had given him a Christian name as well.
He was to be called Andrew David Douglas.
The white man didn’t try to influence him.
He came to him and told him that he would love him always and welcome him always, just as he had made his place with the Sioux and knew that he could come to them.
Thunder Hawk was still not sure about the white man. But Mile-High-Man had reminded him that he must learn to listen to many languages. The message in his vision quest must be obeyed.
Both his grandfather and his mother begged him to give David Douglas a chance.
He sat with his grandfather one day, still torn and demanding to know why he should do so.
“David Douglas is a chief in his land. A lord, they call him. He is honored in Scotland, as his father before him.”
“We are nowhere near Scotland. We have Americans encroaching on us always!”
His grandfather smiled, nodding his wise old head.
“He came here like a warrior in his way, to make his own mark. Perhaps because the nomad’s blood was in his veins.
Because he had read of wide-open prairies, of endless vistas, of tall grasses that stretched forever.
He read about people who were different.
He came here to explore, and we seized him but did not kill him.
Even faced with certain death, he was a friend who wanted to know us, rather than hate us.
He sought knowledge, wisdom, those qualities we seek ourselves.
He needed to learn our religion, our way. ”
“He left us.”
“His father and brother died. His white wife was very sick. He loved both wives and did his duty to the woman he had taken first. When he could have lived a life of greatest comfort, he returned here. His place is in another land. His heart is here. Now he has arranged it that others care for the title and property that will go to his older son by the white way, yet he has come here with that son as well to live near the rivers where we place our villages. He knows your world. He learned it with his blood. He was our captive first, then our relative.” He took a very deep breath, looking at Hawk.
“One day, a tide of white men will come. I saw it many years ago, in my own vision.”
“The tide already comes!”
His grandfather raised a hand in acknowledgment.
“You have yet to see the wave! There will be blood before then. We will fill the prairie with our blood, nurture it, give to it. But we cannot stem the flow of white men. Therefore, some of us must befriend them. Some must fight, and some must die, and some must live. Else we have died and bled for nothing. Do you understand?”
“I understand I should fight!”
“The hardest fights are often those we wage within ourselves. Tell me, Thunder Hawk, when a Sioux brave has two ponies and his neighbor has none, what must the brave do?”
Thunder Hawk frowned. “Give his neighbor his second pony. We must always look after one another. We must always be generous. We are taught this from birth—”
“Then you must be generous with this man who is your father. You will always be Sioux. You will also always be white. You cannot be selfish with yourself. You must share your love with your mother, with your people—and with your white father.”
His grandfather’s words had heavily influenced him as had his vision and the words of the holy man.