Witch Dance (34 page)

“All my other children were conceived in love. I don’t want this child. It was conceived in the barn, in the hay, like an animal.” Anna pressed her hands over her abdomen, as if she could protect her child from the evil of its origins. “There was no love . . . only madness.”

“Are you sure?” Kate remembered Cole’s lucid moment on the mountaintop, his whispered apology. “Cole was a wonderful man who loved his children so much, he couldn’t handle their death. Once, you loved him.”

Anna’s hands tightened over her womb as she remembered the tender look on Cole’s face when he’d planted his seed, and the way he’d called her his sweet hummingbird. At long last she laid her head on her folded arms and cried for her husband.

Kate got tissues from the bathroom then reheated the tea.

“If the ranch holds too many painful memories for you, you can stay here, rent free.”

“You’re leaving?” Anna asked.

“Yes. I’m going home.”

Anna didn’t try to dissuade her. She understood only too well that Witch Dance could hold no hope for Kate Malone.

“I have a sister in California,” Anna said. “She has a guest cottage by the sea and a little shop that sells embroidered children’s clothes. I can work with her, and I think the change will be good for Clint.”

“And the baby?”

She placed her hands protectively over her womb. “The baby, too.”

o0o

Kate stared straight ahead as she rode, for she’d said good-bye to the land the day she’d returned from the mountaintop. When Eagle’s ranch came into view, she steeled herself to feel nothing, but instead she felt the flying sensation of making love to him under the stars and the uninhibited joy of riding bareback with him across the prairies. There, to her left, she’d first seen him in the river, naked, and later they’d cavorted in the water like lusty otters. And on the mountain she’d felt the snow from his clothes melt upon her skin, just as he had melted upon her skin and was there, still, a part of her that would be there always, even though an ancient culture and a thousand miles separated them.

He was standing beside his corral fence with the setting sun at his back. He was beautiful, perfect. How could she ever leave him?

She dismounted, and he shaded his eyes so he could see her better. He used to say the sun turned her hair to flame. Did it still, and did he notice?

“I came to give Mahli back to you.” Why didn’t he say something? “I’m leaving Witch Dance.”

The sun blazed over them, red and gold, as she waited for him to beg her not to go. Waited for the impossible.

In the distance, the taxi she’d called earlier came up the road, spewing snow from its back tires. Eagle’s expression never changed as he reached for Mahli’s reins. He didn’t even ask where she was going.

“I wish you well, Kate.”

The taxi driver honked the horn, and Kate left Eagle without looking back. In the end, love had not been enough.

Chapter 37

Ada, Oklahoma

All the lights in Melissa’s bedroom were pink so that the imperfections of her body were softened and the faint lines in her face were invisible. Even the scar on her wrist barely showed. Spread gracefully across the sheets, she watched every move he made, watched as if her life depended on whether he went toward the bed or the door.

Hal marveled at the power he had over her . . . and at her power over him. He approached the bed naked and kissed the inside of her wrist, where she’d slashed herself so his blood could mingle with hers.

“I am Chickasaw now,” she said.

“Yes.” Sometimes a lie was kinder than the truth, and Hal suddenly understood part of her power over him: He wanted to be kind to her.

She touched the small scar on his wrist. “Your blood flows through me and mine through you. You can never leave me.” Tears started in her eyes. “Promise you’ll never leave me, Clayton.”

“I’ll never leave you.” His hands trembled as he brushed the tears from her eyes. There were no lies in him now, for what he felt was too powerful for lies. He loved this woman against all reason, and he would do whatever it took to keep her . . . even become another man.

“You won’t let them take me back?” she whispered.

“No. I won’t let them take you back.”

Somewhere in Boston was the place she dreaded, a place called The Towers that would bend her will and break her spirit until she became docile and ordinary. Dipping his fingers into the paint pot, Hal adorned himself with the blue of Father Sky then drew a long path from her breasts to her thighs. As he followed the path, he knew that he’d been destined for greatness, and all the paths he’d followed had led to this softly lit bedroom, where Melissa Sayers Colbert flowed beneath him like the Blue River, turbulent and quixotic. With a triumphant Chickasaw victory chant he fell into the river, deeper and deeper until he was drowning.

“Clayton!” she screamed. “Clayton!”

“They’ll never take you from me, Melissa.” The river sucked at him once more, and he closed his eyes, riding the waves. “Never!”

Chapter 38

Charleston, South Carolina

Kate rode along the edge of the water bareback with her knees hugging the Appaloosa and her hair blowing free. Along the beach, lights left over from Christmas glittered on the rooftops of cottages, and in a few of the windows artificial Christmas trees still shimmered with tinsel and glass ornaments.

“Go, Osi.”

The big Appaloosa responded like his namesake, galloping so fast over the sand, he seemed to be flying. She’d bought him when she first came back to Charleston, bought him on impulse one Saturday after she’d cried all through
Dances with Wolves
at the matinee. Some sense of fate had prompted her to name him Eagle.

That or insanity.

She slowed the stallion as she approached the cove where the boating accident had occurred so many years before, and for a moment she thought she heard the sound of crying. Brian and Charles and Deborah and all the children of Witch Dance, crying out for her to save them.

Suddenly she felt the chill of the January wind and wished she’d worn a jacket. She untied the sweater that hung around her neck and stuck her arms through the sleeves.

The sound of crying came to her once more, borne on the wind. Osi whinnied softly, sidestepping.

“Whoa, boy. There’s nothing here except memories.”

The crying became a whimpering, and out from behind the dunes crawled a puppy, its reddish-brown fur bedraggled and its ribs poking like sticks underneath its skin. Kate dismounted and scooped the shivering mongrel into her arms.

“You poor little thing.”

The shivering stopped momentarily as he looked up at her with soulful dark eyes.

“Don’t you worry about a thing. I’m not going to leave you here to die.”

She mounted the Appaloosa, then headed to her cottage. It was remote from the beachfront, set back among hundred-year-old live-oak trees hanging with Spanish moss that swept the ground.

In her stable Kate found a box for the puppy and set him in a nest of hay while she tended Osi. By the time she left the stable, stars had sprung out in the heavens, glittering through the ghostly branches of the trees as if they’d been thrown there by a careless hand. Her mother’s long white Cadillac was parked in her driveway, and Martha was waiting for her on the front porch.

“What in the world are you bringing home now?”

“I found him abandoned on the beach. His name is Coahoma.”

“Coahoma?” Martha followed Kate inside the cottage and sat on the sofa with her brown pumps planted carefully together and her hands folded in her lap.

“It’s Muskogean. It means ‘red panther.’” Busy with the puppy, Kate heard her mother’s sigh. But Martha wouldn’t say anything; she was far too civilized to start a quarrel over Kate’s penchant for everything Chickasaw.

“I was hoping you might come over for dinner on Friday.”

“I’m on duty at the hospital.”

“Saturday, then?”

“I don’t think so, Mother.”

“Katie . . . you’ve been home over a month now. With the new year and all, I thought . . .” She let her voice trail off, and sat looking at her feet.

“Does Dad know you’re inviting me over?”

Martha pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her purse and swiped at an imaginary speck of dust on her skirt. Then she folded the handkerchief into a perfect square and tucked it back into her bag.

“He’s as stubborn as a post oak, Katie, just like you. Not budging an inch, even after I hung the glass ball with your name on it on our Christmas tree.” Martha sank back onto the cushions with her hand over her heart, as if it had taken her last ounce of energy to be so plainspoken with her willful daughter.

Kate glanced at her own tree left over from Christmas, a spindly little pine that nobody else had wanted. It stood in the corner of the room, waiting to be planted, its roots wrapped in burlap and one single string of popcorn hanging limply in its branches. Kate remembered how she’d celebrated Christmas, taking every shift she could at the hospital, then at the last possible minute driving back to her empty cottage. On her way there she’d seen a tree vendor standing on his lot, still trying to sell his one last pitiful tree. She’d bought it, out of sympathy rather than any holiday spirit; and then when she got home she couldn’t bear the thought of going to bed, so she’d sat up most the night, watching old movies and eating popcorn, then finally stringing the leftovers so the tree wouldn’t look so forlorn.

“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” Kate grinned at her mother, hoping humor would dispel the gloom settling in the room like a fog rolling in from the sea; but seeing Martha’s obvious distress, she relented.

“All right, Mother. I’ll be there Saturday . . . but I’m not making any promises.”

 o0o

Martha was thankful Katie had come early so that the two of them had a little quiet time together before Mick got home. He went to his office come hell, high water, or holidays. She supposed she should have told him their daughter was coming for dinner, but she thought the surprise of seeing her combined with the spirit of the new year might soften him a little.

She did wish Katie hadn’t brought the dog though. It might complicate things a bit.

“I see you’ve made Dad’s favorite cranberry salad.”

“It wouldn’t be a company meal without it.”

“He knows I’m coming?”

Martha bustled about the kitchen, ignoring her daughter’s question. “Katie, would you hand me that spatula? I can’t seem to get this icing to stay on the cake.”

“Martha!” Mick burst suddenly upon the peaceful room like a big bear somebody had let out of his cage. Martha wished that sometimes he’d walk in nice and easy and say
hello
. What was wrong with just saying
hello
?

He stopped short when he saw his daughter. For a moment they stared at each other like perfect strangers, and Martha was afraid one or the other of them would turn around and walk out the door.

Katie was the first to break the silence.

“Happy New Year, Dad.”

“Same to ye, Katie.” He looked as if might be about to walk over and put his arm around her, but suddenly he turned back to Martha, all red-faced and blustery. “What in the hell is that damned dog doing in my living room?”

A red flush came into Katie’s cheeks, and Martha saw the effort she made to hold her temper in check.

“It’s my dog.”

Martha pressed her hand over her heart just thinking about the confrontations Mick used to have with Katie. Wouldn’t you think he’d be so glad to have her safe at home that he’d moderate his opinions?

But what did she know? Mick was a senator and Katie was a doctor, while she was just a rich little girl who’d grown into a rich old woman whose husband didn’t love her and whose daughter didn’t understand her.

“I’m too old to clean up dog piss,” he said.

“Now, Mick,” Martha said. Anxious. Lord, why did she always have to sound anxious?

“He’s trained.” Kate was nearly as tall as her father, and when she was mad she looked taller. “And even if Coahoma
did
wet the floors, it would be Mother cleaning it up. Not you.”

“
Coahoma
! It’s not enough that you went off and lived with that savage. Now we have to listen to you calling your dog Indian names.”

“You don’t have to listen.” Kate wheeled around and marched from the kitchen, her color and her chin high.

“It’s a by God miracle she didn’t come back carrying a half-breed child.” Mick poured himself a scotch on the rocks. “She’s driving me to drink.”

Martha’s hands trembled as she dropped her dirty spatula into the sink. She didn’t even bother turning on the water.

“No, Mick. You’re the one who’s doing the driving. You’re driving our daughter right out of our lives. . . .” Was she actually saying those things? The stunned look on Mick’s face told her she was, and that furthermore, he was listening. “And I’m going with her.”

She left the kitchen, but when she got outside she thought about the spatula and almost went back in. Once the icing dried on the blade, it would be like cement.

“Martha . . . come back here!”

She could hear Katie in the living room, collecting Coahoma and his toys.

Martha set her face toward the front hallway. Let
Mick
clean the spatula for a change. Resolute, she went through the front door, even slamming it behind her. Outside, she climbed into Katie’s car and waited.

She’d worry about clothes tomorrow.

Chapter 39

Witch Dance

The old shaman had been dead for days when they found him. He was frozen cross-legged on the floor of his mountaintop cabin with his eyes wide open and a look of shock on his face as if death had surprised him. His tattered buffalo-skin robe was wrapped around him, but it had done nothing to keep out the cold. The door banged on its hinges and snow lay in drifts on the cabin floor.

At the direction of Governor Mingo, he was buried in the ancient ways, in a sitting position, his head anointed with oil, his face painted red and facing the east. Eagle stood with the mourners in a circle around the grave, knowing that what he witnessed was more than the burial of a revered medicine man: He was watching the passing of the old ways. As the songs of lamentation rose toward Father Sky, he heard the whisper of birch-bark canoes through still waters, saw the great painted warriors thundering across the plains on their Chickasaw horses, smelled the smoke from the council fires. He clung to the archetypal memories as if he could implant them in the hearts and minds of a nation by the force of his own will.