The Wildest Heart

That evening, however, the old man made a ceremonial presentation to me of the traditional Apache costume. “Our women now would rather wear garments of the white women than wear the buckskin garments that their mothers took such pride in wearing,” he said in his dry voice. “These belonged to Carmelita, who was the mother of my daughter Elena. She wore them when I took her as my wife, before the whole tribe. It would please an old man’s heart if you would accept them, my daughter.”

The traditional Apache woman’s costume consisted of a long skirt, reaching just above the ankles, richly embroidered with beads and quills. The high-necked overblouse was just as heavily embroidered and carefully fringed at the yoke and sleeves as the skirt had been.

“To please me, I would hope that you wear these garments when you reach the valley. Perhaps it will remind my daughter Elena that she is also an Apache.”

“I’m proud that you would give these to me,” I murmured. I could not help wondering if, perhaps, this old man with his seamed and wrinkled face had loved his young captive. And she—had she loved him in return? I was constantly being reminded, through old stories of other people’s hates and sorrows and loves, of a past I’d had no share in. I was supposed to react, but how could I? Even my father was becoming more and more of a stranger to me. What had he really expected of me?

The shaman, my adopted father, seemed to take his duties seriously.

There were other gifts; moccasins, another full skirt of cotton with a yoked ove

rblouse for traveling in.

It was the traveling itself, and my company, that I objected to most of all. I ventured to protest, and his face became closed.

“I had a dream last night. All this was meant. Your father, who should have been a shaman of his own people, saw it first.”

“But he didn’t even know where I was,” I objected. “Or even if I would agree to come here.”

“He knew that his blood ran in your veins. I tell you, daughter, he knew. Be at peace now. Try and learn to accept. Go to the valley; meet with Ramon. He is of the same world you came from. You cannot know your true feelings until you have first had a chance to find what they are, seeing both sides.”

Again the shaman seemed to display an almost uncanny power of reading my thoughts. “You are still angry at Lucas, are you not?”

“How can I help it? He has treated me despicably. There was a time when I tried to defend him to others. But when I was presented with proof…”

“The kind of proof you speak of has many sides, daughter. You heard this—proof from those who hate him. Have you asked him for the truth?”

“What truth?” I was too perturbed to be cautious. “I know that my father believed in him, but what of the things he did later? Shooting men from ambush, running away with Todd Shannon’s stepdaughter, and then abandoning her. Selling her to another man! And all for revenge. She was killed at a barroom brawl afterwards. Does he know that?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” The old man’s voice was as soft as the rustling of dry leaves.

“Ask him?” I realized that my voice had risen, I tried to control it. “He would only lie, as he has done before. Or he would not answer my questions. Or he would grow angry with me.”

“Is it justice that if a man has been accused by other men he should not be given a chance to answer these accusations?”

This old Indian might have been my own father—or my grandfather, who had first taught me of logic and justice.

My eyes dropped under his calm, steady gaze. “You think I should ask him?”

“It is what you think, my daughter. And what you must ask yourself. I can only tell you that Lucas is headstrong, and he is angry. But if you can put aside your hate and ask him what is in your mind, he will answer you. I have spoken to him, and he will show you the respect that he would show a sister. That is all.” He sighed. “Peace can be achieved only if people will sit down together and speak of those things that trouble their minds. It is easy to be angry. Difficult to say, ‘I would know what is troubling my brother—I will try to understand.’”

I sighed.

“You remind me of my grandfather. He was a stubborn, bull-headed old man with his own ideas. But he loved me, and he tried to teach me to use my mind. He told me that the fact that I was a woman didn’t mean I could not think rationally. And I think you are trying to tell me the same thing.”

“Did I not say that you had the mind of a clever man? You are your father’s daughter. Seeing both sides of a coin.”

I slept surprisingly well that night, perhaps because I had not yet seen Lucas. But all my feelings of resentment boiled up again the following morning, when we were supposed to set out.

I saw only two horses, already loaded down with supplies for our journey and stolen silver.

“But where are the other horses? You surely don’t mean us to walk?”

“More horses would only slow us down, little sister.” His voice was exaggeratedly polite, but I knew better. “You are an Apache now—walking will come easily to you, I’m sure.”

I felt as if everyone else was watching us, as if I was being judged. The two women who were to accompany us were waiting, uncomplainingly, in spite of the heavy packs they carried on their backs. Julio stood beside his brother, his face, as usual, unreadable.

I shrugged lightly, hating myself for the gesture. At least he would understand sarcasm, if no one else did. “Of course. I should have guessed, shouldn’t I?”