White Owl Page 17

  She looked up from the teacup. “Thank you for confiding in me—finally. I cannot begin to understand what you have been through, but even I—the old maid schoolmarm—can understand about love. And it is more than obvious how much you must love this—this White Owl.”

  Rose forced back the tears that once again waited to be released from her eyes. She reached across the table and clasped Maggie’s hand when she put the spoon down. “Thank you. But there’s more.”

  Maggie chuckled and rolled her eyes upward. “More? What more could there possibly be, dear?”

  Rose tightened the grip on her aunt’s hand and exhaled sharply. “I’m—I’m . . . well, I think—no, I know—that I’m carrying his child.” She felt Maggie’s hand go limp as her face went ghastly white.

  “Would you like me to leave now?” Rose said quietly as she turned loose of her aunt and pulled her own hand back down into her lap. “I probably should just go,” she added when Maggie still made no comment or movement. Rose stood and turned. She needed to get away before the pain in her breaking heart rendered her unable to go.

  “Wait,” Maggie shouted. She rose to her feet and came to stand in front of Rose. “I was just thinking of what we will tell your grandparents.”

  “What?” Rose stuttered in confusion.

  “Well, you know, they are old and a bit old-fashioned, too. I fear that they won’t understand all this, and there is no need to make them fret over all the details. We will simply tell them that you married a cowboy or a soldier and he is off, um . . . Let’s see, he’s a soldier and he’s off killing Indi—No, not that one . . . He’s a soldier and he has been sent back East—”

  “No soldiers,” Rose said firmly. Soldiers and Indians were not a good mix.

  “Oh, right,” Maggie continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “He’s a cowboy then, from Wyoming, and he’s off on a long cattle drive. Oh, how exciting—well, not as exciting as the actual truth, obviously. And you came here to wait out the winter until he returns.”

  Rose exhaled and shook her head. Her aunt was unbelievable. With barely more than a blink of her eyes—literally—Maggie had accepted Rose’s story of how her family had thought she disgraced them, seemed completely unaffected that Rose was having her Ute husband’s child, and was already planning a tall tale to protect her from everyone else’s disapproval. There were not even words that she could find that would tell her aunt how much she loved and appreciated her. She threw her arms around her aunt’s neck and squeezed until she heard Maggie laughing and trying to pry her arms away.

  “Sorry, I just can’t believe you. How is it possible that you and my mother are sisters?”

  Maggie’s expression grew more serious. “Your mother used to be a real Irish spitfire, but your father broke her spirit. Now, no more talk about sad things—we have a baby to plan for. When do you think—I mean—” Her face scrunched up, and she shrugged her shoulders as she pointed at Rose’s stomach.

  “Oh, in late spring, I am guessing. It could have happened anytime during—”

  “Late spring it is,” Maggie cut in, obviously not wanting to hear the details of the pregnancy. “We have plenty of time during the cold months to make baby clothes and get ready. Oh, how exciting!”

  Her enthusiasm began to rub off on Rose, and for the first time since her father had made her leave the homestead and White Owl, she felt as though things might actually work out. She had no doubt that she would go back to Milk Creek to be with her husband again; only now she would be returning with his child, too. Her hands protectively covered the barely rounded area of her abdomen where he had planted the seed of their love.

  Knowing that she still carried a part of him brought her joy, but her happiness could never be complete until she was with him again. It broke her heart to think that he wouldn’t know about their baby until after it was born. She could vividly imagine the expression of happiness that would have lighted up his handsome face when she told him that she was carrying his child. She would never forgive her father for depriving them of this time together.

  The winter days passed uneventfully. Christmas came and went. Rose and Maggie had their story perfected. A guilty pang shot through Rose whenever her dear grandmother and grandfather talked about their excitement to meet her cattle-driving cowboy husband in the spring and the thrill of being great-grandparents for the first time. Rose was not proud of lying to them, but the alternative was not an option.

  Shortly after the New Year of 1880, Rose felt the baby move for the first time. She cried for hours because White Owl was missing all of these little firsts. But when she returned to his village in the spring, she would spend the rest of her life making sure he never missed anything again.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The winter had started out harsh, but spring set in early. It was only early April, and already the Vermillion Basin was alive with new life. Snow melting from the towering mountain peaks sent flowing waters rushing down the gullies that had been barren at the end of the last summer.

  For the past few months, White Owl had burrowed into the cave, nursed his broken heart and made a new plan for his future. He had two goals: to travel to this place called Ireland and to get his wife back.

  The ride back to the Adair homestead with filled with indecision. He did not want to see her family again, but he knew he had to have more information before he set off for Ireland. Then he would figure out how he was going to get to this foreign land.

  Hiding on the ridge above the ranch, White Owl tried to calm his pounding heart. This place held too many memories. His gaze traveled to the barn; remembering their nights of unbridled passion made him ache for his Wild Rose even more.

  His long months of solitude had convinced him of two things: Wild Rose had not left to get away from him, and she had not left here on her own accord. He kept recalling the way she had looked at him up here on this very ridge when she blew him a kiss. He looked over at the exact spot where she had been at that moment and he knew without a doubt he was right. Today he would find out the truth.

  He did not have to wait long for his chance. Since it was early morning, Wild Rose’s father and twin brother exited the house together and headed for the barn. White Owl knew that they were most likely headed out to ride the range and check on their herd of cattle. Once they were gone, he could make his move. He would get the answers he needed from Wild Rose’s mother.

  Shortly, the father and son came back out of the barn leading their horses. Although White Owl had hidden Niwaa in a secluded spot among a thick grove of aspens, he was relieved to see that the men were headed in a different direction today. He waited until they were completely out of sight, and just as he was about to start down the slope, the younger brother came out of the house and headed into the barn. He froze in his tracks until the boy was in the barn. He had only taken a couple more steps when the stupid black dog started barking at him.

  It was just like old times, he realized. Sneaking down the slope, the dog barking and—wait—no, it was nothing like old times, because his Wild Rose was not here anymore. Since he was halfway down the slope, he had no choice but to keep going even though the dog continued to bark. He patted his leg in an effort to remind the dog of who he was. “Pepper,” he called just loud enough for the dog to hear.

  The dog came running toward him with his tail wagging, but not before he had drawn Donavan’s attention. The boy came back out of the barn with a rifle in his hand. He spotted White Owl at the same time that the warrior saw him. Donavan immediately raised the gun, but even from a distance, White Owl could see his hands shaking.

  “I am not here to cause trouble,” White Owl called. He placed his rifle on the ground at his feet. “I just want my wife back,” White Owl added.

  Donavan remained unmoving, but his terrified expression made him look capable of blowing White Owl’s head off at any second.

  “Please, Donavan,” White Owl pleaded. “Tell me how I can find her. I know she di
dn’t want to leave me, and I have to find her—I have to . . .” His voice trailed off. The dog was now jumping up and down against his thighs trying to get him to pet him, but White Owl did not move as he waited for Donavan’s reaction.

  The boy’s indecision was written on his face. After what seemed like a very long time, Donavan slowly began to lower his gun. “If—if I tell you, will you promise to leave here and never come back?”

  White Owl exhaled the breath he had been holding. “I promise more than that—I promise to never come back, and to love your sister with all of my heart for the rest of my life.”

  Donavan put the gun down against his thigh and looked up toward the sky for a second before leveling his gaze back on White Owl. “Pa made her leave. She begged and begged to go back with you, but he made her go to my aunt’s house in Denver.”

  White Owl had always believed that there was nothing that could make a warrior cry, but at this moment, he wanted to cry with happiness. His Wild Rose had not run away from him, and he had wasted valuable time with his insecurities and doubts. “Where in Denver?” he finally managed to ask.

  “My aunt’s house is on the Platte River, next to the schoolhouse. She’s the teacher there.”

  White Owl nodded his head. He remembered Rose telling him about her. “Thank you, Donavan. I will make sure she is well taken care of.” He pointed down at his gun, and the boy nodded his head. White Owl carefully bent down, but before grabbing his rifle he patted the pesky dog on top of the head one last time.

  Once he had retrieved his gun, he chanced that the boy would not shoot him in the back as he turned away and began walking back toward the hillside. Something moved at the front of the house, and he stopped abruptly. He turned his head slightly and saw Wild Rose’s mother standing on the front stoop. They stared at each other briefly and then she raised her hand and waved to him. Her face was filled with sadness, and White Owl realized that she was probably hurting far worse than he was. Because he was going to get his wife back, but she would never get her daughter back. He turned away and began sprinting back up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him.

  He had an important date, and she was waiting for him in Denver, along the Platte River. Compared to Ireland, Denver seemed just around the bend.

  The trip to Denver was easy for White Owl. He had traveled this route many times, first when he and his brother were young and had been sent to the white man’s school to learn their language and customs and many times since then on hunting trips in the surrounding areas.

  But never had he felt the euphoria that he experienced on this journey now. Even Niwaa seemed to sense this trip was special, and he galloped tirelessly across the countryside. White Owl traveled only on back trails, and in many places where there were no trails at all. He encountered only an occasional traveler, but he was careful to remain hidden. In no way did he want to delay his arrival in Denver; they had already wasted too much valuable time apart.

  When he finally reached the edge of the foothills that surrounded Denver, it was late at night. The pale moonlight afforded him his first glimpse of the settlement in almost fifteen years. White Owl was stunned to see how much the City on the Plains had grown. When he had been here as a child it was barely more than a tent city out in the middle of the vast plains. Then, there had been only a few rows of buildings and houses starting to be erected along the newly built streets. Now, there were so many structures and streets that he was entirely lost. He hoped that he would be able to sneak through the streets unnoticed, but he knew it would be risky even at this time of night.

  He tied Niwaa to a large cottonwood close to a small pond. The nearer he had gotten to Denver, the sparser the remnants from the winter snow had become in the higher locations. By the time he was over the low range of mountains and hills that skirted the western side of the city, the snow had completely disappeared from the ground. In this area, the new spring grasses were already abundant, so Niwaa would have plenty to eat and drink until he returned. Although he hoped to find Rose and be back out of the city before morning, he couldn’t chance having something happen to his cherished pony.

  He removed the black headband from around his head and tucked it into his pack. He twisted his long hair into a tight rope and pulled it up on top of his head. He had an old tan floppy-brimmed hat in his bag that he had taken from a raid on a homestead by Cripple Creek last year, and he arranged the hat down low on his head over his thick hair.

  He pulled out his bear coat and put it on over his buckskin outfit. Bears were sacred to his people, so he hoped the coat would bring him luck today. It was his hope that from a distance he would look less like an Indian and more like a trapper or a mountain man, since he knew they were fond of wearing their fur coats year-round to show off their killing skills. But most of all, he hoped that he would be able to reach Wild Rose without encountering anyone who would question him.

  Under the cover of darkness, White Owl carefully made his way through the quiet streets. He saw only a couple men from a distance, and they paid him no attention. Finding the Platte River, however, was not as easy. From the time that he had spent here as a child, he vaguely remembered the river. His days back then had been spent learning to read, write, and speak the white man’s language or studying their religion and customs. The rich family he had stayed with was more concerned about saving the soul of a heathen and the belief that they would be rewarded in the white man’s heaven for this great deed than allowing him to explore the area.

  He kept stopping to listen for the sound of running water, but his ears could not detect anything other than the unfamiliar sounds of the city, which for this late hour seemed strange to him. For the remainder of the night, he wandered down the streets and alleys without finding the river. The sun was beginning to peek over the distant horizon when he came upon the river unexpectedly.

  He couldn’t believe he had not found it sooner, because it cut a wide path right through the middle of the city. The spring runoff from melting snow in the higher mountains had turned the deep waters a dark brown. He paused along its muddy banks and debated which way to go—upstream or downstream? He decided to head down. It felt as though he had already been paddling against the current for the past several months.

  The light of the rising sun, however, was making him more than a little nervous. Even with his disguise, he could not chance wandering around in the broad daylight. Before the massacre at the White River Agency, his presence in the city would have drawn mild curiosity, but now, he would probably be shot on the spot. He stayed as close to the river as possible and tried to walk at a leisurely pace so as not to attract too much attention. The houses along the river were similar in size and structure, but it was not until he spotted the little red schoolhouse that he realized his desperate quest was about to come to an end.

  Beside the school, in the same fenced area, was a small, white two-story house. The windows were trimmed in the same red paint as the exterior planks of the schoolhouse. White Owl was reminded of Wild Rose’s vibrant red hair and its sweet, fresh scent. He was reveling in the idea of those memories soon becoming a reality when the front door of the house suddenly swung open. The only thing that he could do was stand as still as possible and hope that the woman who exited the house would not pay attention to him, because he was standing almost directly in front of the house.

  She was another redhead, but her hair was more of a blonde shade than Wild Rose’s fiery hue. She was undoubtedly Wild Rose’s aunt. The resemblance was striking even from a distance. At this early morning hour, the spring temperature was cold, and the woman pulled her woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders and hurried toward the schoolhouse. Once she was on the front stoop, she took a key out of the pocket of her calico dress and unlocked the door. She disappeared inside the red building.

  White Owl waited until the door slammed shut at the schoolhouse before entering the front gate of the white picket fence. He stood at the front door and breathed deep. Rose
was so close now that he was overwhelmed by the thought of seeing her again. Gulping hard, he reached up and knocked on the door—softly the first time, then harder a second time.

  The door had an oval window of etched glass, but a white lace curtain covered the window. Through the lacy veil, however, he could see her walking toward him. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, the way he loved it. She was wearing a long white nightdress, and a heavy blue knitted shawl was draped around her shoulders. He sucked in his breath.

  As she neared the door, her footsteps slowed and then came to a stop. She remained rooted to the spot, staring back at him through the lace of the white curtain. White Owl knew she recognized him, even in his ridiculous outfit.

  He could only wait for a few seconds before he had to grab the doorknob . . . thankfully it was not locked. He pushed the door open and looked into those eyes—eyes the color of the summer sky, and the loneliness and heartbreak of the past few months were wiped completely out of his mind.

  He stepped over the threshold, but she did not move. Her mouth was open and her eyes wide as if she could not believe he was real. She clutched the shawl in front of her long flowing gown. A smile began to turn up her lips.

  “You found me,” she said in a voice filled with awe. She stepped a little closer and gazed up into his eyes.

  White Owl smiled back. “I was prepared to go to Ireland to find you.”

  A confused look filtered through her face. “Ireland?” she whispered.

  White Owl couldn’t stand being this far away any longer. He closed the door behind him and crossed the short distance to where she stood. “They said you went to Ireland because you wanted to get far away from me.” He reached out and with a trembling finger touched the side of her smooth cheek. She was not a dream. He saw tears filling the rims her eyes.