White Fire

White Fire turned and frowned at her. He made two tight fists at his sides. “Did you not hear my son speak of things past?” he said dryly. “Do you not understand now that he remembers things about his mother? About me, his father? Do you not see that I could take him even now, and you could not stop me?”

“You wouldn’t,” Maureen gasped out, placing her hands to her throat as she took an unsteady step away from White Fire.

“No, I do not plan to change his home that quickly,” White Fire said. “Not even if he asks me to. I do see the need in taking him from one household to the other gradually. He has had so much here that he will never have while living with me. I must first make him appreciate the smaller things in life for him to, in the end, truly accept them.”

“But please don’t take him on that . . . that thing today,” Maureen pleaded. “It’s so dangerous!”

“Only if I was not with him to see that he will be taught how to ride the pony properly,” White Fire said.

Seeing the woman’s building grief, realizing how she would miss the child once he was gone, he softened his tone with her.

“Ma’am, I do understand how you are feeling about losing Michael to me,” he said, his voice drawn. “I have been without my son for three years. One never adjusts to losing a son, ever, even . . . if that son was never truly theirs to begin with.”

Maureen’s eyes filled with tears. She stared up at White Fire for a moment longer. Then she broke into fitful sobs and ran inside the house.

White Fire went down the steps and knelt beside Michael. He placed his hands at the boy’s shoulders and turned him to face him. “Son,” he said, swallowing hard as he ran his fingers over Michael’s pale, white face. He lifted his fingers to Michael’s curls and cringed as he ran them through the thick tresses.

Then he slid his hands over his son’s velvet suit, disgusted at the lace collar that lay around his neck.

“Father, can we go riding now?” Michael murmured, placing a soft hand to his cheek. “Can I ride my pony? I truly love it.”

White Fire was touched deeply by Michael’s trust in him. If not for Michael having remembered him in his dream, surely he would be frightened of him, for White Fire’s appearance showed nothing of his white heritage. Except for those who knew of his mixed blood and saw him as a ’breed, everyone else saw him as an Indian through and through.

“Michael, for now I want you to ride with me on my horse,” White Fire said, taking Michael’s hand, and leading him over to the larger horse. “We will ride awhile on mine so that you can get used to being on a horse again. Then you can ride your own when I feel you are ready.”

He placed Michael in his saddle. He untied the pony’s reins and brought the pony up beside his steed. Still gripping the pony’s reins, White Fire mounted his horse.

He then handed Michael the pony’s reins.

“You hang on to these while we ride for a while on my horse,” he said, smiling as Michael took the reins.

White Fire slid an arm around his son’s tiny waist and held him in place as he wheeled his horse around and rode in a slow lope away from the Greer mansion. He could feel eyes on him and knew that Maureen was watching them.

He ignored her and absorbed the wonder of being with his son. That his son actually remembered him and loved him. It was sad that Michael could not be as happy about his true mother, for she had been taken from him forever.

One day soon he would take Michael to his mother’s grave. That, too, was a part of him growing up and accepting life as it would be for him.

“The air and sun are warm,” Michael said, smiling over his shoulder at his father. “It feels good.”

“Days like today are made just for little boys like you,” White Fire said, making a wide turn toward the open prairie of blowing grasses and wild flowers.

Michael laughed, then turned and gazed at the pony. “Can I ride him soon?” he asked. “Will you teach me how? I remember riding a pony when I was small, before you left and did not come back.” He lowered his eyes. “Before Mommy died.”

“Yes, before I was abducted by the Sioux and before your mommy died, you had your own pony, and though you were so tiny, you learned quickly how to ride it,” White Fire said thickly. “Michael, son, turn and look at me.”

When Michael turned his dark, trusting eyes up at him, White Fire swallowed hard. At this moment it was as though time was turned back to the day Michael was born, with his midnight dark eyes, and coal-black shock of hair. In his eyes back then there had been the same trust as there was today.

So much love for his child bubbled over inside White Fire that for a moment he could not speak from the joy of being with him again.

“Father, why did you want me to look at you?” Michael asked, his eyes innocently wide. “You suddenly look so sad.”

“I am anything but sad,” White Fire said, sighing. He smiled. “Son, there are so many things I wish to say to you. There are so many things I wish to teach you. From this day forth I will teach you many things that have been denied you. You have been denied the Indian side of your heritage too long. It is important that you know both sides of your heritage. You are part Indian. Never feel ashamed of that. Michael, Indians are a proud and courageous people. You should be proud to be a part of those people.”

“I am proud to be your son,” Michael said, turning and wrapping his arms around White Fire’s neck. “I am so glad that the dream came to me and made me remember things the way they were.”

“Dreams are friends,” White Fire said, relishing this moment with his son.

When they came to a stream that wove, snakelike, through the meadow, he drew rein and stopped his horse. “The horses can get drinks here,” he said, lifting Michael to the ground.