Paint the Wind

  "I would have known you anywhere," Hart said huskily to his daughter. "Do you know who I am?"

  The little girl's feet were parted, her stance not defiant but firmly planted as an oak.

  "You're the man who wants to take me away from my mommy and daddy," she answered, her voice just tremulous enough to betray her fear. She held fast to the hand that linked her to the past. "If I don't go with you, my daddy will have to go to jail."

  Hart closed his eyes against the pain, before he spoke in a voice so strained, it was nearly unrecognizable.

  "Do you know why?" he asked.

  Oh, God, those are Chances eyes in Destarte's face, he thought, ravaged by the child's unblinking gaze.

  "My daddy saved me from being killed by the Indians, but he wasn't supposed to."

  Hart had to wait for the clamor in his chest to quiet; when he spoke again his voice was gentle.

  "Could you leave us alone for a few minutes, sweetheart? Your daddy and I have things to say to each other." Sally looked at her mother for permission, then nodded and slipped from the room. He noticed that she made no sound when she moved.

  Allison Murdock's bright eyes had never left Hart's face for an instant; she seemed to be studying him intently. "John, dear, why don't you take Mr. McAllister out into the hallway and speak with him for a moment. Then I'd like to do the same." The man nodded, his jaw set as stone. He walked into the hallway with Hart and closed the door behind them. It was easy to see the love he bore the woman on the bed.

  "I'm sorry, McAllister. So damned sorry..."

  Hart made a contemptuous sound. "That you murdered my wife and son and stole my daughter? How do you apologize to a man for that?"

  "She was just a squaw, dammit, how could I have known? She wasn't a Christian—"

  "And you are? You fine upstanding Christian who gutted my son and raped my wife as she was dying?"

  "Jesus, McAllister, it was a war, she was only an Indian! I didn't know."

  "She was my wife, you bastard." Hart's voice was unrelenting. "I loved her more than my own life and I've waited eight long years to avenge myself on you, you sanctimonious son of a bitch."

  Murdock's eyes were bloodshot with the strain, his breath ragged.

  "I thought the baby was white, as God is my witness, I did! I thought she'd been stolen from some settlement."

  "Bullshit, Murdock. You knew I was at the fort looking for her. You saw me there, I remember you."

  "But that was later, McAllister! Don't you see, by then I'd already sent her home to my wife. She was so happy to have that baby... we'd been married so long without any kids and she was so desperate for one. It was like God had sent this baby to me for Allison. She's the best wife a man ever had... I couldn't take Sally away from her, don't you see, I loved her too much to break her heart?" The truth rang in the man's voice and Hart had to cling to his hatred, wrap himself in it, because this pathetic creature was only a man, not a monster as he'd always seen him in his nightmares. He'd done what a thousand others would have—a monstrous deed by an ordinary man—and Hart felt robbed even of his vengeance. He left the man in the hall and let himself back into the bedroom where Mrs. Murdock lay upon the bed.

  "You poor man," she whispered, seeing his ravaged face. "I've been trying to hate you for what you are doing to Sally. But I can see your anguish so clearly in your eyes."

  She paused, as if the effort to speak had drained her, and she closed her eyes a moment; Hart thought it was as if a light had gone out in the world. She had lovely, intelligent eyes and they seemed the only part of her still fully alive.

  "It's important that you and I understand each other, Mr. McAllister, and there's so little time... I love Sally more than you could possibly dream. She is the only perfect thing that's ever happened to me and I'm grateful she was mine for even a little while." Silver tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't allow them freedom.

  "She's so good and gentle, Mr. McAllister, that she sacrifices herself for me, now that I'm sick. Taking care of me, taking care of the house with John away so much. I know you're a rich and famous man and you wouldn't have searched so long for your child if you weren't a good one." She lay very quietly for a moment, looking like translucent porcelain. "I had planned to beg you..." she whispered, and then was still.

  "You must promise me you'll take good care of her, Mr. McAllister. Not just by giving her things, but by teaching her and giving of yourself. She's very intelligent and strong, but she's so loving that she does what's best for others, not herself. And she's a little fey... I don't know how to say this to you, but she seems to know some events before they happen and she feels connected to every living thing in a way ordinary people just can't understand."

  Hart could hear the love in every word the woman spoke, love and understanding. There are some women born to be mothers, endowed with the right gifts for the calling. This woman would give up her child to a better life, because she loved her more than she loved herself.

  "I'd like to talk with my daughter, Mrs. Murdock," he said wearily. "The Apaches believe that children belong to the whole tribe... I can see you've been a foster mother my Destarte would have approved of."

  Allison Murdock searched his eyes, then spoke quite tenderly.

  "You poor man. You've lost too much, haven't you? Far too much already." He could only nod, uncertain of his own voice.

  "What did you and your wife call Sally?" she pleaded as he was about to leave. The father didn't turn around to answer, even the memory of her name broke his heart.

  "We called her Sonseearay," he said, his hand on the brass knob.

  "It suits her, Mr. McAllister. There's more Indian in Sally than you know."

  Hart took the dark-haired child and led her outdoors. The leaf carpet was thick and apricot-colored beneath their feet.

  "Are you afraid of me?" he asked, and she looked up to answer, for he towered above her.

  "I'm afraid you'll take me away from my mother."

  "You love her very much, don't you?" he asked with a sigh.

  "I love her and she needs me. She's very sick."

  Hart nodded and squeezed the small honey-colored hand. "It's real good to be needed, isn't it, sweetheart."

  "Why do you call me that?"

  He had to look away, for tears blurred his sight. "Because long ago, in another world... there was a little girl named Sonseearay I loved very much. I called her sweetheart."

  Sally raised her eyes to his, great searching eyes that seemed to see inside him. "I'm sorry you're so sad, Mr. McAllister. I wish you didn't have to be so sad." He noted she hadn't once pleaded to be left behind, although it was apparent that was what she wanted. There was strength and stoicism in her that he recognized, but she was no longer his; the realization wrenched at Hart's soul. She was someone else's child now and Destarte was well and truly gone forever, and the tiny fragment of their love that he had thought salvaged was only an illusion.

  Hart sat down heavily on the park bench, not knowing what to do, the quiet child beside him. He put his head in his hands; to face the loss of her a second time was more than he could bear. Or perhaps she was already lost in the white man's world that bore no trace of the sensibilities she'd been born to. He felt bereft and heartsick.

  "Do you hear them talking, Mr. McAllister?" the small voice asked suddenly, trying to distract him from his grief. "Hear who, sweetheart?"

  "The trees. The oak is so much kinder than the elm." The big man thought his heart might have ceased to beat in his chest. He looked searchingly into the shining eyes that were watching his in such innocence.

  "I hear them," he answered, tears running down his weathered cheeks. "Your brother taught me how to listen before you were even born." Hart took the beautiful child into his arms then and clasped her so close, she could barely breathe. It wasn't all lost, not the best of them... because she was alive and she was wonderful. In her, the red and white rivers flowed and only the Great Spirit knew her destiny.

>   Hart tried to regain his composure before letting her go.

  "Would you write to me sometimes, sweetheart?" he asked. "Maybe later, you could come visit me and we could be... friends."

  "I knew you wouldn't take me away," she said with great seriousness. "The sycamore told me you aren't mean at all." She smiled at him, and in that smile they all lived again. Chance, Destarte, Charles. Hart clasped the perfect little fingers and brought them to his lips.

  "Someday, Sally, I'll tell you about Sonseearay, and her mommy, and about a little boy who talked to trees. And maybe then you'll understand why you know things other people don't."

  Hand in hand, father and daughter walked back to the Murdock house. It was a white house with a porch swing, on a tree-lined street; a perfectly fine house for a little girl to grow up in, he thought, as he kissed his child good-bye.

  "Until we meet again, Sonseearay... Sally," he whispered into her long, straight hair as he held her to his heart.

  He walked, with a heavy tread, up the stairs to the sickroom once again. John Murdock's arms were around his wife's thin shoulders, the visitor could see that both were crying. The man's protectiveness of his sick wife touched Hart, it was a good trait in a man.

  He cleared his throat to alert them to his presence, and to gain control of his own voice.

  "Take care of her for me, Mrs. Murdock, will you? She loves you very much. I brought a box of clothes with me—I'd like Sally to have them, if it's agreeable with you."

  The woman's eyes seemed large in the shrunken face. "Then she isn't yours, Mr. McAllister?"

  Hart smiled a little. "She's mine all right, and her mother's... but I can see she's yours too. I'd like to stay in touch, Mrs. Murdock. No one ever knows what the future holds, and I'd be grateful if I could be there, should she ever need me.

  "I guess you've noticed that her soul isn't all white... someday she might need me to help her understand what's Indian in her nature."

  Husband and wife threw their arms around each other in relief. Murdock rose from the bed and held out his hand to Hart; his eyes were red-rimmed and his voice unsteady. "I don't know how to thank you, McAllister. There just aren't any words that could say what's in my heart..."

  "See that you take damned good care of her, Murdock... I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for Sally and your wife. You'll answer to me if any harm comes to her, do you understand me?"

  Murdock squared his shoulders, a military gesture. "That's as it should be, McAllister. Whatever your reasons, I'm grateful."

  "We'll consider her fostered to your care, for now. I'll see to her having a proper birth certificate in her right name, that much I'll expect you to agree to. That, and my right to see her from time to time. I'll send money for her keep, and I'll pay for her schooling. Any child who could read and write at three like Mrs. Murdock said in her letter should have every chance for an education. There are universities that take women now—if Sally's got a mind to go to one of them." He cast about in his mind for any detail he'd left uncared for.

  "Mr. McAllister..." Mrs. Murdock's voice was soft as spring rain. "Whatever terrible wrong was done you, you have my word, we'll make it right with Sally. I'm no Indian, Mr. McAllister, but I understand that child's soul, too. Nothing I ever do will interfere with the good she got from both her parents. You have my word on that."

  Hart caught her eyes with his own and she felt the suffering she saw in the man tug at her heart.

  "God's ways are mysterious, Mrs. Murdock, but here is where He sent her and it might be He knew what He was doing." He reached out for the woman's hand and she clasped his with surprising strength.

  "I see her in you, Mr. McAllister," she said. "Someday, perhaps, she will, too."

  Hart stood for a moment outside the small frame house and watched his daughter playing in the leaves, through tear-blind eyes. He had dreamed of bringing home a daughter, not a memory. She turned and smiled, waving at him.

  "I love you, Sonseearay," he said softly into the sunlit silence. "I will always love you." Then, because he loved so much, he turned and forced himself to walk away.

  Chapter 136

  Hart brooded hard over the loss of his daughter and Fancy watched him worriedly, trying to decide if what she considered doing would help or hurt. Gabriel was the last of her secrets, and it was time Hart knew the truth—he had a son, as well as a daughter, perhaps the knowledge of one could assuage the pain of the other. She sent for the boy soon after Hart returned from Philadelphia and tried to decide how best to break the news.

  Hart dismounted behind Fancy's house and was walking toward the porch when he spotted the redheaded child. The sturdy little boy was sitting near the stable, busy and not particularly well dressed, he was without benefit of any adult supervision that Hart could see. The child had dark red hair of the kind favored by Titian, and enough freckles for three youngsters. Hart paid the boy little mind, assuming him to be the son of one of the hired hands. But, then, as he drew near, he saw that he was drawing a picture and felt a strange ache rise up in him for his own son, who had been not much younger than this boy, when he died.

  "Not a bad likeness," Hart said amiably, looking at the half-done drawing of the horse. "But he could use a little meat on his bones."

  The child looked up, serious as a senator, and regarded the huge man like a general on an inspection tour.

  "I'm Gabriel," he said, as if that should mean something special to Hart. So this was Fancy's youngest, he thought, taking a closer look. The boy was nothing like his brother or sister, but there was something familiar about him nonetheless.

  "My name's Matthew," Hart said, "although nobody ever calls me that."

  "I know," the boy replied, and he returned to his work. "They call you Hart. Mama told me all about you, and I saw your picture."

  Hart smiled at the stocky child, built big for his age. "Care to have me show you an easy way to draw that pony?" he asked him.

  "No, thanks, I can do it." Gabriel went right on with his work; his matter-of-fact confidence made Hart laugh out loud, but the youngster never flinched.

  "I like a man with a mind of his own," Hart told him, and turned to leave, when the boy spoke again.

  "Jewel says I look just like you."

  That was the instant Hart knew, not before. The age, the hair, the sketch... the quirky movement of the head, so like a little boy who lay buried in the desert. It could have been genetics and some common ancestor coming out in both of them, but it wasn't, and Hart knew it sure as God made little green apples.

  He felt that sudden sharp focus in the gut, as only happens when the truth hits you squarely, when you're least expecting it.

  He stood very still, barely able to breathe; what he felt was entirely too complicated to name. Relief that all the children of his seed weren't lost to him... hurt that Fancy'd never let on... joy that some tangible evidence of their love existed in the world. And anger. But at whom? he wondered. At her, for tangling them all so inextricably in this strange web? At destiny, or himself, or all of them?

  Gabriel's eyes followed Hart as he mounted the steps of the house, not in an overly curious fashion, just watchful... as artists' eyes are meant to be.

  Hart made his way to the parlor to find Fancy, moisture clouding his vision.

  "Gabriel is my son, isn't he, Fancy?" he demanded when he found her.

  "Yes, Hart. Gabriel is yours."

  "Why in God's name didn't you let me know you'd gotten caught?"

  "I wasn't caught. I wanted him. He's very like you, just as I hoped."

  Hart frowned, in great confusion. "Are you trying to tell me that you did love me, back then? That you wanted to have my child?"

  Fancy straightened her back and looked directly into his troubled eyes. "I loved you then, and every day of my life since then," she said quietly. "I love you now."

  Hart stood very still, trying to connect with this incomprehensible truth. "You know, Fancy, I've spent my whole life running a
way from you. From not wanting to compete with Chance for you... from your own pigheadedness... from my own heart. To Yale, to the Apaches, to Europe.

  "I've spent twenty years loving you and leaving you... and longing for what we could have had together, and wishing you loved me as I loved you. I think maybe I'm not going to do that anymore... not going to let you choose wrong one more time. I think you're going to marry me today if I have to tie you to my saddle to get you to a preacher."

  Fancy smiled at the man who'd loved her so long a time. "It might be a little more romantic as proposals go, if you at least say you love me, too," she answered, but all he did was smile and shake his head as she walked into his waiting arms.

  They were married that night at the Crown of Jewel's, which seemed the only appropriate place for such an important social event.

  Chapter 137

  The avenue of oaks and elms stretched corridor-like in front of them. Spanish moss trailed wisps of lace, breezes rustled the leaves above the trotting horses and the stately carriage. Fancy leaned against the seat, tilted her head far backward, so she could look up through the lacy filigree that formed a canopy above, just as she had a thousand times when she was small. She felt a compulsion to loose her hair and feel the soft bayou breeze ruffle through it. Hart saw there were tears on her cheeks, enough to wash away the bitterness and longing... enough for what was lost and what the years had given in its stead.

  He glanced sideways at Fancy's gesture and smiled. "You look like a little girl doing that, babe. How are you holding up?" He had tracked down Armand Deverell through the Canfields—he was the last of her kin and the last of her unfinished business.

  Fancy smiled up at her husband and straightened herself into a more dignified posture. "I'm scared to death, I suppose. It's hard to come home after thirty years of wanting to. I don't know what to expect of Armand... and these old bayous keep whispering Atticus' name to me."