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"Go on inside, I'll be in directly," She told the children. They scampered. Matthew glanced up on the ridge for a moment then went inside.
Her eyes drifted to the cliff once more. She couldn't quite get enough of looking at him it was an indulgence. She couldn't resist his splendor, for he was a well-built man of much strength. Something more than physical appreciation was taking place though, and she knew that too. The fear she first had of him when he came was long gone now.
Her parents had been wrong. Not all Indians were bad! Certainly not him!
He stood magnificently tall and strong.
She'd never been close enough to see his eyes, but she could feel them. Instinctively she knew they would be warm and caring. His long hair was often adorned with beads or feathers. Strangely, her hands itched to touch its softness. She shook herself. He was an Indian. How could she so easily feel such for an Indian? However the feelings he evoked, told her he was much more than just an Indian. A bond had grown between them, a silent bond. And she supposed it would remain that way forever.
Because he was an Indian, she knew they could never say the things in their hearts. Yet it was there, deep inside her, assuring her that all would be well. She'd never met him, didn't even know his name, but she knew he watched over her and her children. The knowledge filled her with hope, something that until two years ago, she had not had.
Eve Dawson stared at the wooden marker for her dead husband for a long time now. Willing herself to feel something for the man. There was nothing. He had been gone two years now; he had died of a fever. He came down with it and was dead within a week. Eve never mourned his dying, for he had been a cruel husband, with little regard for her or her children. Still, Eve felt she should have mourned him. Someone should have. Didn't every soul deserved to be mourned? Only there were no tears in her heart for him.
She pulled a sunflower that she had planted and set it on top his grave. Just motions, not feelings. She smiled; at least she had the satisfaction of doing right by him. She'd met Harold Dawson on a wagon train coming south to Texas. He had courted her with much enthusiasm. Being a girl of barely fifteen, she was impressed by a fully-grown man wanting to court her. So she'd let him, against her parents wishes.
After her parents died in an Indian raid, she was forced to either marry or return to New England. And Eve had loved the west, or what she'd seen of it and couldn't imagine going back to the drab life in New England, where nothing ever happened.
Therefore, she married Harold when he eagerly proposed. That had been nine years ago. In addition, Eve had grown up in a hurry when she realized he wanted children right away. She also didn't realize that Harold was a mean drunk, and took to the bottle regularly. Although he wanted children, it wasn't because he loved them, but rather that he could brag about siring them. Many times, she'd seen the hurt on Matthews face when his father refused to take him fishing or do anything with him. He didn't teach them, he didn't kiss them. He was nothing to them.
The first time he'd hit her, she'd been pregnant with Matthew. Even though he slammed her hard to the floor, she didn't miscarry and Matthew had been born without complications. Jane Ann was born after her second miscarriage. Jane Ann was three, Matthew was eight, and they were Eve's blessing.
She felt a tear slide down her cheek now. She swallowed hard, and straightened her back. It was over, and she buried the hurts of the past deep in her heart. However, every time she looked upon the two tiny graves, those hurts came alive again. She tried numerous times to block it all out, it never worked. It had been such a nightmare. She laid there on the floor for no telling how long, bleeding. If a neighbor woman hadn't come along, no telling what might have happened. Harold stayed drunk for three days after it happened.
That was a long time ago, she thought, wiping her brow now as the heat of the day announced itself.
She had buried her parents here on Dawson land. At the time, she had no place to bury them, except along the trail. There were too many markers along the trail. She insisted Harold take them along and bury them on his property.
She was twenty-four now, her husband had been dead a good two years and she felt like an old woman, by most standards. She'd been married, widowed and had two living children, and no future ahead of her. However, she was alive and she would prevail, no matter what. Loneliness ate at her like a hungry wolf. Another tear slipped down her cheek unnoticed. If only she had someone to talk to, to share her worries with.
Her crops hadn't come in this year, and there was scant to eat but fish and chickens. She did have a supply of home canned vegetables from her garden. She canned everything, so it would last longer.
Still she would get by. Maybe next year would be better, she told herself.
Yet, the man on the ridge above her kept vigil for her and she knew instinctively he would never harm her or her children. However, Eve never let herself delve into fantasies, he was just a man, an Indian at that, and although he would watch over her, he was not hers, although a secret part of her wished he wasn't Indian.
That was her fantasy and she would keep it close to her heart, for other than her children it was all she had.
It had to remain unspoken, for he stood like some renegade only proudly. According to most, he would not be considered civilized. He was a full-blooded Indian, although she didn't know which tribe. It simply didn't matter. There could be nothing between them, and yet there already was, and that bond strengthened every day.
A few times, she had looked back at him.
He stood so tall and noble looking in the distance.
He wore buckskins and a vest, most of the time, but when he hunted, he wore the Indian loincloth with no shirt. His hair was long and he usually had some feather or beaded work in his hair. He was tall, and big and virile as any man she'd ever laid eyes on. Perhaps if he'd been skinny and ugly, she wouldn't have put so much thought into him. However, his virility was magnetic.
To lie in his arms, might be heaven itself, she smiled to herself and hugged herself. What a fantasy that was, she told herself. It was a silent dream, not to be spoken of out loud. With one exception, her heart kept the fantasy alive. White women were not supposed to be attracted to Indians. Nevertheless, unlike so many she'd seen, he had handsome features. His nose was slim, and he didn't have a barrel chest, but flat and broad and muscled. His waist tapered, his legs were long and muscled. He was what every man should look like, Eve thought to herself. It was pure fantasy, and it was hers.
The feelings between them grew, from respect and peace to something more over time. On the other hand, did she just imagine that he cared for her? Maybe it was just a wistful dream, but she carried it cl
ose to her heart always. No one else knew about it, she was safe.
She should be afraid, but Eve could not raise a fear. Not of him. She knew instinctively he had looked down on her for some time now, months, maybe even years. He had never harmed her. In fact, Eve felt more secure knowing he was there. If he vanished, she would leave this valley and never come back, for there was nothing here but old pains and memories best forgotten. Yet, leaving her two children here seemed sacrilegious. Even though they were not born, they were hers, and leaving them would tear at her heart.
Perhaps the man was a scout of some kind. He could be gone for days, yet he always returned.
Had he meant her harm, she would have already been dead. Instead, he stood upon the ledge, just staring down. She felt certain his presence meant he kept other tribes from attacking her homestead. As long as he was there, there was no danger.
Once he had been gone for two weeks and Eve had been afraid then. However, the biggest fear was that he had left and wouldn't return. She scolded herself often for fretting over him, but she did.
