White Fire Page 4

  “Yes, that is what I was told,” Colonel Russell said, nodding. He nodded at White Fire. “Come with me. There’s much that needs to be explained.”

  “I hope you are talking about my wife and son,” White Fire said, walking away from the sour-faced soldier, who continued to glare at him. “I need answers. Do you have them for me?”

  “Let’s go to my office. Then we can talk about them,” Colonel Russell said blandly.

  The hesitation in Colonel Russell’s voice filled White Fire’s heart with dread. He went with the colonel to the familiar house. He had helped with the construction of it and was almost familiar with every piece of wood and stone that had been used.

  He knew well the interior of the house, especially Colonel Snelling’s grand, private study, where Colonel Russell now took him.

  Too consumed with worry to feel comfortable, White Fire sat opposite the grand oak desk that once was Josiah’s. He watched apprehensively as Colonel Russell eased into the thickly cushioned leather chair behind the desk.

  “Wine?” Colonel Russell asked, forking an eyebrow.

  “No, I never touch the stuff,” White Fire said, his voice tight.

  “Cigar?” Colonel Russell offered, holding a cigar out to him.

  “Sir, neither do I smoke,” White Fire said, his voice agitated, growing impatient with the colonel who was obviously trying to put off telling him the truth he now sorely feared hearing.

  “About Colonel Snelling,” the colonel said dryly, “he was transferred to Jefferson Barracks. Shortly after his arrival, he died. That’s about all I can tell you about Josiah Snelling. The news brought to me of his death was sketchy.”

  Colonel Russell absently rolled the cigar between his fingers. “And now about your wife and child,” he said, his voice drawn. He gave White Fire a solemn stare. “Samuel, your wife died of pneumonia shortly after your disappearance. Your son? Since he is more white than Indian in appearance, he was adopted by an affluent white family in Pig’s Eye. The child is in good hands.”

  Stunned speechless, White Fire gazed wide-eyed at the colonel.

  The colonel cleared his throat nervously. “I suggest you consider leaving your son with this family to be raised as white, rather than allowing him to be known as a ’breed,” he said tightly. His eyes locked with White Fire’s, a sudden coldness in their depths. White Fire realized that he was most definitely in the presence of a man of prejudice. A bigot.

  But it was White Fire’s shock over the loss of his wife, Mary, that kept him from thinking more about this man. Courtesy was being paid him only because White Fire’s father was . . . a man with ranking in the white world, a man whose skin was white, and who had been deeply admired and respected by all.

  “Mary is dead,” White Fire gulped out, his heart aching, his insides suddenly feeling empty.

  Although he had never truly had a passionate relationship with his wife, he had always felt something warm and special for her.

  And his son?

  In the three years White Fire had been gone, he had expected many changes in his son’s life, but none this severe. His son was being raised by strangers?

  It was all too unreal, almost too much to bear or to accept.

  “Your wife had a Christian burial in the fort cemetery,” Colonel Russell said softly. “Josiah Snelling saw to it for you. He also approved of your son being taken in by a family of his own choosing.”

  His head spinning, his despair so keen and hurtful, White Fire rose clumsily from the chair. “I must go for my child,” he said, his voice breaking.

  “You might want to think more about that decision once you are past the shock of your discoveries today,” Colonel Russell said. He rose and came around, placing a hand on White Fire’s shoulder.

  He slid the colonel’s hand away. “What are their names?” he asked tersely. “Where can I find my son?”

  “Your son lives with George and Maureen Greer,” Colonel Russell said, his voice drawn. “Once you are in Pig’s Eye, all you need is ask where they live and their home will be pointed out to you.”

  White Fire made a sharp turn and started to leave, then was taken aback when Flame suddenly entered the room.

  Their eyes instantly locked.

  In her eyes White Fire could see instant recognition. As he had remembered her, she had also somehow remembered him.

  He could not help but be taken by her loveliness again. He found her small, delicate, and vivacious.

  Flame’s face flushed hot from her discovery. Her lips parted in a slight gasp, for she would have never imagined it possible to truly see this handsome ’breed again, and here he was. So close. So real.

  And even more now than before, she found him attractive and intriguing.

  Yet she knew not to allow her father to see that she recognized White Fire. She knew her father’s feelings about Indians. Surely the only reason he had taken White Fire into his private office, which was usually only used for white men, was because of her father’s prior association with White Fire’s father in St. Louis.

  No, she must pretend not to know White Fire. Then she would seek out information about him in a shrewd way that would not cause her father’s wrath to come down on White Fire like lightning from the heavens. She knew that her father would never allow her to befriend an Indian, even if he was part white.

  Feeling as though he was being disloyal to his wife, whom he had just discovered was dead, White Fire gave Flame one last lingering look, then fled quickly from the colonel’s office.

  He forced himself not to think any more about the lovely lady. Now was not the time to be enamored by a woman. His son!

  He must go and find his son.

  Her heart racing, and trying to hide her excitement at seeing White Fire after having dreamed of him for so many years, Flame went to her father and gave him a hug.

  “And so you have arrived safely to Minnesota’s shores, I see,” Colonel Russell said, returning Flame’s hug. “It’s good to have you with me, Reshelle. So very, very good.”

  Flame didn’t waste her time telling him she preferred being called Flame over Reshelle, for he had never once obliged her request.

  She hugged him again, then swept away from him. She walked idly around the room, admiring the many shelves of bound-leather books, and other grand appointments.

  “And how was your journey up the Mississippi?” Colonel Russell asked, sitting down on the corner of his desk. “Was Lieutenant Green polite enough?”

  “Yes, quite,” Flame said, her hair whipping around her face as she made a quick turn and smiled at her father. “I love being here, Father. I can hardly wait to go horseback riding.”

  “You must not get too anxious for that,” Colonel Russell said, picking up his cigar, lighting it. “You can only go riding if you agree to an escort.”

  Flame’s eyes widened and she gasped. “Never,” she objected, her back stiffening. “I’m much too old to ride with a damned military escort.”

  “Watch your words or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap,” Colonel Russell growled, yanking his cigar from his mouth. “Reshelle, I am not only in command of my men here at the fort, but you also must abide by my rules.”

  “Oh, Father, I had hoped you might have changed since you realized how well I have taken care of things in St. Louis without escorts or someone constantly looking over my shoulder,” she said, her voice solemn. “Did I not see to the sale of our home?”

  “Yes, but that is much different than doing whimsical things here in the wilderness,” Colonel Russell said, going behind his desk and sinking into his chair. “Daughter, you will follow orders, or by damn, I might place you in a convent.”

  “Oh, Lord, please, not that again,” Flame said, sighing at the threat she knew so well from her father. Through the years he had more than once threatened to put her in a convent. He knew that she would never stay, even if he tried. She would find a way of escape.

  “Well, anyhow, behave, Reshelle,” Colo
nel Russell said thickly. “I’ve got lots on my mind. I don’t need to be constantly worrying about my daughter.”

  Flame went to the window and gazed out at the courtyard. She was using her usual escape from her father’s words by becoming lost in thoughts that were much more pleasant. She stood on tiptoe and stared down from the second-story window at White Fire as he rode from the fort.

  “That man that was just here,” she murmured, not able to keep totally quiet about her curiosity. “I saw him one other time, Father. I saw him at a funeral when I was ten. His name is White Fire. What is he doing here?”

  She paused, then turned and faced her father. “Is he married?” she asked, her voice soft and guarded.

  Colonel Russell glared up at her. “The ’breed’s wife died a couple of years ago,” he said warily. “He only found out today that she is dead and that his six-year-old son is being raised by a family in Pig’s Eye.”

  “A son? His wife is dead?” she said, her pulse racing.

  She fought against arousing her father’s suspicions of her being too interested in a man she knew he never would approve of.

  “And, Father,” she said, purposely changing the subject. “Where on earth is Pig’s Eye? I have never heard of such an ungodly name for a town.”

  “Pig’s Eye is a short distance from the fort,” Colonel Russell said. “I doubt it will ever amount to much.”

  Flame turned back to the window and gazed from it. She smiled slyly. She had heard all that she needed to know. White Fire was single. And the fact that he had a son made him even more intriguing, for she loved children. She had always hungered for a brother or a sister, but her mother had been too frail ever to have more children.

  Her thoughts returned to her father. He was still someone who would try to rule her life. She vowed to herself not to allow it. Since her mother’s death in St. Louis, she had learned to enjoy her independence. She had come willingly to the Minnesota Territory with hopes of finding White Fire.

  She had also looked forward to experiencing the challenge of living in the wilderness. She loved challenges.

  She smiled as she thought of White Fire again.

  Now he just might be the biggest challenge of all!

  Chapter 7

  Coulds’t thou withdraw thy hand one day

  And answer to my claim,

  That fate, and that to-day’s mistake—

  Not those,—had been to blame?

  —Adelaide Anne Procter

  White Fire had visited his wife’s grave. The very sight of it, the thought of Mary having died at such a young age, leaving behind a son whom she had adored, had given White Fire even more determination to go to his son.

  As he arrived at the two-story stone house, where the family of George and Maureen Greer lived, White Fire observed its grandness as it sat back from the dirt road. Inside that house was his beloved six-year-old-son, Michael.

  White Fire felt threatened by the apparent wealth of the Greer family, for their home was the best of all those that had been built in the city of Pig’s Eye. It stood tall, stately, with open green shutters at each of its many windows on both stories. Chimneys made of round stones from the river stood two in the front at opposite ends, and two at the back. On this cool morning of early September, smoke spiraled slowly from all of the chimneys.

  He gazed at the fenced-in yard, and at the abundance of flowers lining the lane that led to the front door, and those in the window boxes on the lower-floor windows.

  He looked past the house and saw a grand stable at the back of the house. He stiffened when he saw a stable boy bring a horse and buggy from the stable. He watched, with guarded breath, as the lad took the horse and buggy to the front of the house.

  Shortly after that, a short and squat man, perhaps twice White Fire’s age, came from the house in a black broadcloth business suit, a valise tucked beneath his right arm.

  White Fire watched as the man, who he surmised was George Greer, took a wide turn in the drive and directed his horse and buggy down the lane, soon riding toward White Fire.

  White Fire tapped his moccasined heels into the flanks of his horse and rode onward, making it look as though he was just another curiosity seeker who had stopped only long enough to admire the Greers’ fancy home.

  White Fire stopped when George Greer left the lane and traveled onward in the opposite direction toward the small business district of Pig’s Eye.

  White Fire wheeled his horse around and rode back to the lane and in a slow lope up it. He watched the door, his heart thumping at the thought of his son coming outside to play. It was such a beautiful day, the sun brilliant overhead, the breeze soft and lulling.

  No one came from the house. Even the stable boy had gone back to his duties at the stables

  White Fire knew that in a matter of moments he would be with his son again. His heart cried out to hold him and to take him home. But most of all he wished to have things back as they were, that his sweet Mary would be at the cabin awaiting his and Michael’s swift return.

  It tore at his heart to think back to those lonely moments at the grave. It was then that he knew just how important Mary had been to him. He felt guilty for thinking of how often he had taken her for granted. Yet without question, she had always been there for him.

  And although she knew there was never any true passion between them, since their marriage was one more from friendship than true love, she had treated White Fire as though he were the only man on earth.

  He knew that even when he did finally marry for love, he would never forget Mary’s generous, pure sweetness, and what a good mother she had been to their Michael.

  Now in the shadows of the huge, stone house, White Fire dismounted and secured his horse’s reins to a hitching post. His knees strangely weak, his pulse racing, he took the three steps that led him to a small porch.

  His fingers trembling, he slowly raised his hand toward the door, then doubled his hand into a tight fist and knocked.

  Almost dizzy from his anxiousness to see his son again, White Fire watched the door, waiting for it to open.

  And when it did, he was immediately thrust into the company of his son again as Michael stood there, looking up at him with wide, dark and curious eyes. White Fire swallowed a fast-growing lump in his throat.

  He stared down at his son, now so grown up at the age of six. He was so flooded with emotions at this moment that he found it hard to move. It was as though his feet were frozen to the porch flooring. He had lost his ability to speak. Suddenly, Michael was whisked from his sight as a middle-aged, tight-lipped lady came and shoved him behind her as she glared up at White Fire from her short height.

  “Who are you?” Maureen Greer asked, her voice filled with wariness. “What do you want?”

  Still White Fire found it hard to speak. He stared down at the tiny woman, whose brown hair was drawn into a tight bun atop her head, and whose gingham dress, with its high collar, revealed a thick waist and flat breasts.

  When Michael peeked from behind the lady, his eyes still innocently wide and filled with a strange sort of wonder, the spell was finally broken. It was at this moment that White Fire knew that his son did not recognize him. In three short years, he had forgotten his own father. He had surely, as well, forgotten his mother.

  Yet White Fire reminded himself that he should not be so alarmed. Three years was a long time to a six-year-old.

  “Sir, answer my questions, or leave,” Maureen snapped, her voice now loud and shrill.

  “I have come for my son,” White Fire suddenly blurted out. He bent to a knee and held his arms out for Michael. “Michael, come and let me hold you. I have come to take you home.”

  The color rushed from Maureen’s fleshy cheeks. Her lips parted in a loud gasp. She then whirled around, grabbed Michael by a hand, and turned to close the door.

  White Fire jumped to his full height and placed a solid hand on the door, stopping her from closing it

  “Michael, go t
o your room!” Maureen cried. “Hurry, son. This man means you harm!”

  “Michael, I am your true father,” White Fire said as Michael turned to run toward the spiral staircase at the far end of the corridor. “I would never harm you.”

  Michael stopped and turned slowly around. He again gazed at White Fire.

  Maureen stepped slowly away from White Fire. “I thought you were dead,” she said, a sob lodging in her throat.

  “So did everyone else,” he said somberly. “But as you can see, I am here, alive, and most certainly Michael’s father.”

  He gazed at Michael as the child inched toward him. Now that he had made this woman believe he was who he was, and his heart was no longer pounding, he found himself horrified at how this woman had clothed his son. Michael was dressed in a black velvet suit with a deep lace collar, with black, patent-leather shoes, his raven-black hair was in long sausage curls which rested on his shoulders. His face was so pale, White Fire doubted it was scarcely ever touched by the warm rays of the sun.

  It made his heart sink to see his son look so sissified. Like his father, he should be a child who was as one with nature.

  “I think we need to have a talk,” Maureen said, stepping back and placing a possessive hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Come with me into my parlor.”

  Michael clung to her skirt as he went with her into the parlor.

  White Fire followed closely, his eyes never leaving his son, his own arms aching from having thus far been denied him. He now knew that this was not going to be as easy as just coming and claiming Michael as his. It was obvious that the child had close ties with his adoptive family.

  Michael’s shying from him cut deeply into White Fire’s heart. Yet he knew that in time this would change. He would not give up on having his child back with him.

  But White Fire knew to take it slowly and cautiously. He did not want to turn his son against him. It would take a long time to reacquaint Michael with him.

  Maureen gestured with a hand toward a plush, thickly cushioned upholstered chair among those which sat in pairs on each side of the fireplace, in which a roaring fire burned on the grate.