Authors: Madeline Baker
The holidays came, and Loralee experienced a twinge of homesickness as she thought of the Christmases she had known in the East, of the good times she had shared with her family. Christmas had been a special time of love and giving, of pies and cookies and treats for everyone, a time of secrets and sharing. After her parents died, Christmas had lost some of its glow. Usually, she had spent Christmas with the servants in whatever house she was working for at the time. This year she would share it with Mike. The thought did not cheer her as it should have.
The week before Christmas, Loralee made a batch of gingerbread men for her Indian students. The younger children were charmed by the gingerbread men,
oohing
and
aahing
with pleasure as they bit into the spicy cookies. One young girl refused to eat her cookie man, declaring that the little brown figure looked like an Apache boy. The older boys pretended indifference, but they, too, were pleased with the unusual treat. Even Short Bear took one.
The Indians didn’t celebrate Christmas, but Loralee could not resist telling them the story of Mary and Joseph and the infant Jesus. She told them of the shepherds and the Wise Men, and of the wicked king, Herod, who ordered all the babies killed.
“Just like Chivington,” muttered Short Bear.
Loralee frowned. John Chivington had been a Methodist minister from Ohio. He was an imposing man, six and a half feet tall, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds. He started life as a peaceful man, and was a presiding elder of the Rocky Mountain Methodist District. He had organized a Sunday school and did some circuit preaching through mining towns. When Colorado raised a cavalry troop during the Civil War, Chivington had been offered a chaplain’s commission, but he had refused, demanding a fighting commission rather than a “praying” one. In November 1864, Colonel John Chivington and the Third Colorado Volunteers rode through a small village of peaceful Cheyenne, callously butchering five hundred Indian men, women, and children. Chivington and his men rode into Denver with more than one hundred scalps.
“Yes,” Loralee said slowly. “Just like Chivington. Throughout history there have been men who gloried in bloodshed. But let’s not talk of that now,” she said, eager to change the subject. “Let’s open our reading books to page forty, shall we?”
Christmas was a peaceful day. Mike took Loralee to church in the morning, and then they went back to Loralee’s house for a big breakfast of ham and eggs and fried potatoes with biscuits and gravy.
After breakfast, they exchanged gifts. Mike gave Loralee a lovely gold heart on a dainty gold chain.
“Oh,” Loralee breathed as she lifted the heart out of its velvet-lined box. “It’s beautiful, Mike, but it must have cost half a month’s pay.”
Mike grinned. “Not half a lieutenant’s month’s pay,” he said.
“Oh, Mike! You’ve been promoted!”
“Yes, the colonel gave me a Christmas promotion.”
Mike fastened the chain around Loralee’s slender neck. “It’s to remind you that my heart will always be yours,” Mike murmured, brushing the back of her neck with a kiss.
Loralee’s eyes filled with tears. She longed to say she felt the same, that her heart was his, but she could not lie to him. He deserved better than that. For a moment, she closed her eyes and Shad Zuniga’s swarthy countenance danced before her, a mocking grin on his handsome face.
Shaking his image from her mind, Loralee handed Mike a gaily wrapped package. “Merry Christmas, Mike.”
Mike whistled softly, appreciatively, as he opened the small square box and withdrew an intricately carved silver pocket watch.
“It was my father’s,” Loralee said. “I hope you like it. I noticed you don’t have a watch.”
“It’s a great gift, honey,” Mike said, kissing her cheek. “Are you sure you want to give it away?”
“Yes.” Loralee smiled. “Besides, I’m not really giving it away. After all, it will still be in the family once we’re married.”
Mike smiled. “That’s true!” he exclaimed, catching Loralee in his arms and hugging her close. “I’ll make you happy, Lorie, I promise.”
“I know you will,” she replied. She placed her arms around Mike’s neck, closing her eyes as he kissed her cheeks and forehead and nose, slowly working his way to her mouth. She returned his kiss fervently, wanting to love him, wanting to respond to his touch with the same desire she had felt for Shad Zuniga. But no matter how she tried, she could not feel anything remotely like passion, only a pleasant sensation kindled with warm affection.
Later that afternoon they went to dinner at Colonel Freeman’s house. Stella Freeman set a lavish table, complete with sparkling crystal, gleaming silverware, and flickering candles. The colonel’s striker served an elaborate dinner that had been prepared by the Army cook who proved that, with the proper ingredients and the right incentive, he could create a culinary delight to rival that of a French chef.
After dinner, there was sherry for the ladies, brandy and cigars for the gentlemen.
“I hear you’re soon to be a bride,” Stella Freeman remarked when the ladies were alone.
“Yes,” Loralee replied, forcing a smile. “Mike has kindly asked me to marry him, and I have accepted.”
“It’s rather sudden, isn’t it, my dear?” Stella Freeman asked. “You’ve only known each other a short time.”
“That’s true, but Mike doesn’t want to wait.”
“I see. Have you set the date yet?”
“No. We’re still waiting for the paperwork to come through.”
Stella Freeman made a gesture of despair. “That could take months, my dear,” she lamented. “You know how slowly the Army moves.”
“Yes.” Loralee sighed. If the paperwork didn’t arrive soon, everyone on the reservation would know why they were getting married in such a hurry.
For a while, the ladies discussed weddings they had been invited to, the current styles, wedding dresses and veils, and the rising prices at the general store.
Loralee only half listened to what was being said. She felt Stella Freeman eying her speculatively several times, and she was glad when the gentlemen finished their cigars and came back inside.
It was late when Mike took Loralee home. He lingered at her front door. It was hard to be close to her and not touch her, hard to believe that a girl as sweet and as gently reared as Loralee could be in love with a damned Indian. Still, soon she would be his wife. He would woo her tenderly, patiently, tell her daily that he adored her, until he had won her love for himself.
It was her wedding day. Loralee stood before the mirror, carefully studying her reflection. She looked like a bride, she mused, but she did not feel like one. Brides were happy, excited, laughing creatures with eyes that sparkled and skin that glowed. There were dark shadows under her eyes caused by many sleepless nights; her heart was heavy, her expression resigned. How could she marry Mike when she was three months pregnant with Shad Zuniga’s child? How could she not?
She ran her hand along the smooth satin of her skirt. Her dress was lovely. The bodice was fitted, the neck modest, the sleeves long, the skirt full enough to hide her expanding girth. She had not wanted to wear white, but Mike had insisted. Now, surveying her image in the looking glass, she felt like a fraud. She didn’t deserve to wear white. White stood for purity, modesty, chastity. By rights, she should be wearing black, she mused bitterly, or maybe scarlet.
Mike had wanted to be married in the post chapel, but she had adamantly refused, and Stella Freeman had graciously offered her home for the ceremony.
With a little sigh of resignation, Loralee picked up the long white veil and pinned it in place.
A short time later, there was a knock at the door and the colonel’s wife stepped into the room. She was clad in a dress of light blue silk, a single strand of pearls at her throat.
“We’re ready, dear,” the older woman said.
“Thank you.”
“Smile, my dear,” Stella Freeman chided. “This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”
“I’m just a little nervous, I guess. I’ve never been a bride before.”
“Well, you look lovely, just lovely. Hurry now. Everyone is waiting.”
Loralee nodded. With a last glance in the mirror, she left the room. Mike was waiting for her in the Freemans’ spacious parlor, standing beside the post chaplain. Mike looked quite handsome in his dress uniform, his hair carefully combed, his boots and brass shined to perfection. He gave her a wink and a smile as she walked toward him.
Loralee saw Sally Stockman standing near the front, a happy smile on her face. Sally nodded at her, as if to say everything would be all right.
Loralee tried to return Sally’s smile, but failed. This was her wedding day. She should be happy, elated. Instead, she felt like crying. In minutes, she would be Mrs. Michael Schofield. Somehow it didn’t seem real.
Like a sleepwalker, she stood beside Mike, her hand in his as she repeated the brief vows that made her his wife. His kiss was tender, filled with hope and promise.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. There were numerous toasts to the bride and groom. There was a barbecue in the Freemans’ backyard. There were good wishes and presents. Somehow Loralee managed to say and do all the right things, but it was as if she were watching it all through someone else’s eyes.
And then, too soon, she was alone with Mike. And she knew she had made a terrible mistake.
Zuniga stared at the glass in his hand for a long moment before he tossed off the contents and poured another drink. He had been sitting in the back of the saloon for over an hour, methodically working his way through a bottle of bonded bourbon in an effort to forget that Loralee had married Lieutenant Michael Schofield the week before.
He had seen her as she left the Freemans’ house on the day of the wedding, her face flushed with happiness, Schofield beaming at her side. She had been a vision of loveliness in a gown of white satin. The knowledge that she belonged to another man slammed into him like a fist, making him feel sick to his stomach.
Torn by anger and jealousy, he had vowed to forget her, but it was useless. He spent hours prowling the hills. He cut more wood than they would ever need, working until he was exhausted so that he could sleep at night, but even in sleep she came to haunt him.
And now, lastly, he had turned to whiskey, hoping to drown her memory in a haze of alcohol. But even that failed him, the bourbon having no more effect than water.
Occasionally he wandered through the reservation, studying the girls who were of marriageable age. Perhaps he would take a wife. One woman was the same as another, after all, but none of the women he saw appealed to him. Some were beautiful, some were sensuous, more than a few would willingly share his lodge, with or without marriage, but none of them had hair like gold silk or skin like fine cream.
“Hello, Indian,” purred a husky female voice at his elbow. “Long time no see.”
Zuniga nodded. “Kelly.”
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Do whatever you want.”
“What is it?” Kelly asked, laying her hand over his forearm. “You look like hell.”
He nodded morosely. “I feel like hell.”
“Can I help?”
Zuniga looked at her for the first time. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, he thought absently. Her figure was firm and round and he had spent many a lonely night in her bed. Looking at her now, he wondered how he had ever touched her, then he swore under his breath. Loralee had spoiled him for all other women, he thought irritably. Damn her! He clenched his fist and banged it on the table, causing the whiskey in his glass to slosh over the rim and onto the green baize table top.
“Hey,” Kelly said softly. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he growled. “Just fine.”
“I could make you better,” Kelly murmured. She leaned across the table, giving him a clear view of her ample breasts. “No charge.”
“Thanks,” Zuniga said, rising. “Maybe some other time.”
Grabbing the bottle, he left the saloon.
Loralee stood in the doorway, waving to Mike as he left for work. She stood staring after him until he was out of sight, a pensive expression on her face. They had been married for two weeks, and Loralee was doing her best to make the marriage a success even though she knew it was doomed to fail.
Closing the door, she went into the kitchen and began washing the breakfast dishes. Her honeymoon had been a disaster. Following the reception at the Freemans’ house, they had gone to Mike’s place. Her belongings and furniture looked out of place in his quarters. As out of place as she felt. Alone, they were strained and awkward with each other. Mike had poured himself a drink, but left it untouched.
In the bedroom, Loralee had hesitated before undressing for bed. Sensing her shyness, Mike had left the room. She was in bed when he returned, the sheets pulled up to her chin, her eyes wary.
“Go to sleep,” Mike had said, his voice husky. He gave her a lopsided smile. “I’m a patient man. When you’re ready, you let me know.”
She had stayed awake a long time, staring bleakly at the ceiling. Marrying Mike had seemed like the perfect solution to her problem, but now she knew it had been wrong, very wrong.
She washed the last dish and began to dry them. Life with Mike wasn’t all bad. She had never been so pampered or cared for in her life. He refused to let her do anything remotely strenuous, and even scrubbed the floors himself so she wouldn’t have to. They shared many common interests like reading and walking and playing cards. Loralee felt she could tell Mike anything and he would understand. In turn, she offered a listening ear at the end of each day when he came home needing to let off steam about how Captain Rodgers was harassing the new recruits, or how Private Cooper drank on duty
With a sigh, she put the last of the dishes in the cupboard and began to wipe the counter off.
If only she could love Mike as he loved her. If only she could feel more than just friendly affection for the man who was her husband. She tried to respond when Mike kissed her, tried to feel some stirring of desire, but always in vain.
The only happiness she found was in teaching. Her class had grown and she now had twenty-six children enrolled. Short Bear had stopped coming to school soon after Christmas, and she missed him. He had been her only link to Shad.
When she wasn’t teaching, she filled every spare minute with work. She dusted and swept and ironed and mended until her back ached and her hands were red and sore. She baked bread and pies and cakes until Mike complained that none of his uniforms fit properly anymore. She waxed the furniture until it fairly glowed, washed the windows, made new curtains. She planted a small vegetable garden, and when that was thriving, she planted flowers.
They attended all the social functions at the fort, and Loralee learned to endure Stella Freeman’s patronizing airs.
It was at one such affair that Loralee heard Zuniga’s name mentioned.
“I’m sure it was him,” one of the sergeants was saying. “I’d just come out of the saloon and I was feeling pretty good, if you know what I mean. Not drunk, mind you,” he added hastily for the colonel’s benefit, “just feeling good. I was on my way to the barracks when someone came up behind me and whacked me across the side of the head. When I woke up, my pockets were empty.”
Colonel Freeman’s face was grave. “How can you be certain it was Zuniga? Did you see his face?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly? Either you did or you didn’t.”
“I just got a glimpse of long black hair and buckskin pants,” the sergeant admitted, “but you know he’s got a reputation for being a thief. He’s always got money to spend. Where the hell does he get it?”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Colonel Freeman remarked, “but I can’t very well arrest the man without any evidence other than your suspicions. And there are a number of men with long black hair and buckskin pants.” The colonel turned to Mike. “Are you still keeping an eye on his lodge?”
“Yes, sir,” Mike answered. “We’ve checked the place out twice in the last week, but we haven’t turned up anything. No weapons, no cash, nothing.”
Loralee moved away, remembering a conversation she had had with Zuniga in town. She had asked him where he got the money to pay for the coffee and sugar he had bought, and he had answered that he stole it from the soldiers who drank too much on Saturday nights. She had thought that such a thing was shameful, but she knew that the Indians didn’t consider stealing from the enemy to be stealing. It had been a way of life for hundreds of years. A warrior bragged about the horses and women and goods he took from the enemy, but he never stole from a friend or a member of the tribe. To do so would result in banishment from the tribe, as well as a loss of honor.
That night, it seemed as though everyone was talking about Zuniga. It was more than Loralee could stand, and she went outside in search of a little peace and quiet.
Mike sought her out in the colonel’s garden. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes, fine. I just needed a little fresh air.”
“Do you want to be alone?”
“No, not really.”
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?” Mike asked lightly.
“Yes,” Loralee answered, grinning. “About six times, I think.”
Mike laughed self-consciously. “I can’t help it. You are beautiful.”
He was going to kiss her. She saw it in his eyes even before he took her in his arms. She closed her eyes, letting him draw her to him, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against the palm of her hand as his mouth closed on hers. He kissed her for a long time, his hunger for her evident in the way his hands caressed her back and thighs, the heat of his hands penetrating her skirts.
He was breathing hard when he drew away. “Loralee, don’t make me. wait any longer. Please, honey, I want you, need you, so much that it hurts.”
“Mike—”
“I know, I know. I promised not to push you.” He drew a ragged breath, his hands clenched at his sides. “You go on back inside. I’ll be along in a minute.”
He was unusually quiet when they returned home that night, and Loralee felt a rush of pity for him. What was she saving herself for anyway? Zuniga was forever lost to her.
Undressing, she climbed into bed. Mike joined her a few minutes later. She could feel the tension in him and she thought how difficult it must be for him, lying beside her night after night, wanting her. She stared into the darkness. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, letting Mike make love to her. She longed to be held, to be loved. Zuniga had awakened the passion within her, and she yearned to feel the touch of a man’s arms, to experience the pleasure that came from a man’s touch.
Slowly she reached out and placed her hand on Mike’s arm, her fingertips stroking his skin. Perhaps she could find the same fulfillment in Mike’s arms that she had found in Zuniga’s.
Mike groaned low in his throat as Loralee touched him. His whole body ached with wanting her.
“Loralee,” he murmured hoarsely. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She whispered the word, knowing it was a lie.
Mike uttered a soft cry of joy as he rolled over and pulled her into his arms, covering her face with kisses as his hands reached under her gown to stroke her soft flesh.
Loralee squeezed her eyes tight shut as Mike caressed her, his hands gentle yet urgent as he whispered that he loved her. He lifted her nightgown a little higher, his hands seeking her breasts, his manhood hard and warm against her leg.
Loralee bit down on her lip, stifling the urge to scream. Mike was her husband. He had every right to make love to her. Indeed, he had been patience itself as he waited for her to let him do what he had every right to do.
With a cry of despair, she twisted out of his arms. “I can’t, Mike. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
“It’s all right,” Mike said hoarsely. He sat up, his head cradled in his hands as he listened to Loralee weeping softly into her pillow. He longed to hold her and comfort her, to tell her that it didn’t matter, but he dared not touch her. He was a man, after all, not a saint. He had promised he would wait until she was ready. At least she was trying. Maybe next time would be better. He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long to find out.