Lunging, the Outcast gripped the white woman by the throat.
Chapter Six
Shakespeare McNair waited until they were half a mile south of the lake. Then he coughed and casually asked, “So, is there any news you care to tell me, Horatio Junior?”
Zach was scouring the ground for sign. “None that I can think of. And how many times have I told you not to call me that?”
“None at all?”
“I expect my parents back in a week or two. And there were elk at the lake this morning.” Zach scratched his chin and pretended to ponder. “Oh, wait. Lou and I saw two squirrels the other day. She thought they were downright adorable.”
“Which is more than I can say about her husband.”
Zach shifted in the saddle. “Pardon me?” he innocently asked.
“ ‘You are a knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats,’ ” Shakespeare quoted. “ ‘A base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy worsted-stocking knave.’ ”
“Why, Uncle Shakespeare, whatever do you mean?”
Shakespeare wasn’t done. “ ‘Thou cruel, ingrateful, savage and inhuman creature.’ To think I bobbed you on my knee and tickled you and let you pull on my whiskers, and this is how you treat me?”
“You’re not making any sense. Maybe Blue Water Woman is right. Maybe you do just talk to hear yourself speak.”
Shakespeare puffed himself up like a riled rooster. “A pox on her and a pox on you. You know very well I wanted to hear about the baby.”
“Oh. You know about that? Then why should I need to tell you?” Zach couldn’t hold his laughter in any longer.
“I am a cushion and everyone pricks me.” Shakespeare reined the mare to go around a boulder. They were in the middle of the valley; the scent of the grass was keen in his nostrils, the sun warm on his cheeks. He felt grand to be alive. “But enough tomfoolery. Be honest with me. How are you taking it?”
Zach never held anything back from McNair. It wouldn’t do to try. The oldster had an uncanny knack for seeing right through him. “I made a mess of it at first. I got her all upset because I wasn’t sure I was ready to be a father.”
“I can’t think of anyone more ready. Remember, you are the fruit of your father’s loins.”
“Thank you for reminding me of that.”
“What I meant is that you have root in a fine tree. Your pa is the best man I know. That includes me. You take after him, whether you admit it or not, and you’ll be as good a pa as he is.”
Zach hoped so. “What do you mean by best?”
“I should think it obvious. Not all men are as devoted husbands and fathers as your pa. White or red, a lot of them care more for their horses and their guns than they do for their wives. Or they can’t be bothered to spend time with their children because they’d rather be off hunting or fishing or just getting out of the cabin or the lodge.” Shakespeare paused. “The true measure of a man isn’t in how straight he shoots or how tough he is. The true measure of a man is in his capacity to love. In that regard, your pa beats every gent alive all hollow.”
“Capacity to love?” Zach regarded that as an odd standard. But his uncle might have a point. Until he met Louisa, his whole purpose in life was to count coup. Now his purpose in life was her.
“Love is the hardest thing in the world to do right. I’m not talking about giving someone a hug every blue moon and saying you love them. I’m talking about true love, real love. The kind of love you have to work at. The kind where you live for the person you love and not for yourself. The kind where making them happy matters more than your own happiness.”
“And you think my pa is that way?”
“Think back. Think of how devoted he is to your ma and your sister and you. Any time you’ve had a problem, he was right there helping you. He’s never set himself above you, never bossed you around like you were—”
“He made me keep my room clean,” Zach mentioned.
“Even that was for your own good. Let a child be lazy and they’ll be lazy later in life. Mostly he’s let you grow true to your nature, and been there to snip and prune when need be.”
“You keep comparing me to a plant.”
“Because you are. We all are, and when we’re young we need the right nurturing. Your pa took care of you just right, and you’ll do the same with your own offspring.”
Zach drew rein and stared at him.
“What?”
“The things that come out of your mouth never cease to amaze me. If it’s not all that silly Bard stuff, it’s plants.”
“Have a care. Old William S. was never silly. He played with words the way you used to play with those blocks your pa got you. He was—” Shakespeare abruptly stopped.
Zach had held up a hand for silence. Turning, he gazed to the north. “Did you hear that?”
“No. What?”
“I don’t know,” Zach admitted. “A scream, maybe.”
“A scream?” Shakespeare twisted around, his saddle creaking under him, and listened. All he heard was the rustle of the wind and the swish of the mare’s tail. “Maybe you imagined it.”
“No. I’m pretty sure.”
They waited, but the sound wasn’t repeated. Zach scowled and reined his bay around. “I think we should go back.”
“If they were in trouble, they’d fire shots.”
“I still think we should.”
“We’d end up wasting most of the morning,” Shakespeare replied. “Besides, we haven’t seen any sign of hostiles or other whites since those goldcrazy coyotes paid us a visit a while back.”
“I know.” But Zach wanted to go back anyway. He had an uneasy feeling he didn’t like.
“Listen. You just found out your wife is going to have a baby, so naturally you’re a little nervous about leaving her alone. We’ll look ridiculous, riding all the way back without a reason.”
The next instant they had one. From the vicinity of the lake and the women they loved came the crack of a shot.
Blue Water Woman was happy to have some time to herself. She loved McNair dearly, but she needed quiet spells now and then, and with him around it was never quiet. If he wasn’t quoting his precious Bard, he was griping about aches in his bones and joints or prattling on about anything and everything under the sun. She’d never met a man, red or white, who talked as much as he did.
Today, after she fed him a breakfast of eggs and potatoes and he rode off, Blue Water Woman took up her knitting and sat in the rocking chair. She loved to knit. Winona had given her the metal needles and taught her the white way, which Winona had learned from Nate. It had surprised Blue Water Woman, a man knowing such a thing. Apparently Nate had learned it from his mother when he was a boy, much to his father’s annoyance.
Rocking slowly, Blue Water Woman lost herself in the click of the needles and the intricate weave. She was making Shakespeare what the whites called a sweater. The name puzzled her. Sweaters were usually worn in cold weather, when people sweated least. She thought it made more sense for whites to call it a warmer, but then, the whites did and said many things that to this day perplexed her.
Blue Water Woman sometimes marveled that she had wed a white man. The Flatheads didn’t hate the whites, as the Blackfeet and some other tribes did, but few took white mates.
She remembered when they first met. Back then he’d had brown hair and he didn’t quote the Bard every time he opened his mouth. Truth was, he’d been shy and quiet—as incredible as that was to believe—but he’d had the same wonderful personality. The one thing he did then that he still did now was love to laugh, and that laugh of his was infectious. When Shakespeare laughed, the whole world laughed with him.