“Ma!” Billy exclaimed, leaping to his feet, while Summer froze.
Billy took the skillet from his mother, who turned away, shaking with rage. In the silence that followed, the boy stood shuffling his feet, looking uncomfortable. The tension in the kitchen had suddenly swelled to an explosive level.
“Summer, what is she talking about?” Amelia asked plaintively. “Why did she call you a squaw?”
Summer took a deep breath. “Lance and I were married last month, Melly.”
Her sobbing suddenly arrested, Amelia raised her head to stare at her sister in horror. “Dear God…you didn’t. Summer, tell me you wouldn’t.”
She shook her head. “It’s true. Lance is my husband.”
Amelia recoiled in her arms. When Summer tried to reach out for her, she let out a shriek. “Don’t touch me! Oh, God, don’t touch me. All this time…you and he…”
She buried her face in her hands and started weeping again.
Billy shuffled his feet even harder, looking as if he would rather face a Comanche war party than a group of feuding women. Summer stood helplessly by while Martha Truesdale flashed her a malignant look of triumph.
Amelia was the first to speak. “I think…I need…to lie down…”
“Yes, of course,” Summer said quietly. “I’ll help you—”
“No! Martha will help me!”
The pain that shot through Summer was swift and cruel. It cut her to the quick to be spurned by her only sister, a sister who until now had always loved her unconditionally. And for such a reason. She had only married Lance in order to save Amelia.
Summer felt herself trembling as she watched Martha Truesdale support Amelia up the wooden stairway to the bedchambers above. Billy mumbled something about needing to see to the animals and made his escape. Alone, Summer sank weakly into the chair her sister had vacated.
Amelia didn’t know what she was saying. She was simply reacting to the shock, that was all. When she’d had time to adjust to the idea of their marriage, she would accept it.
She would have to, because it was now a fact that couldn’t be changed.
To Summer’s vast relief, Amelia relented. Or at least, she appeared to. At supper that evening, Amelia pretended she’d never heard about her sister’s marriage to a half-breed.
Instead she chatted about mundane things, quizzing the Truesdales about their neighbors and events that had occurred during her absence. She even made an effort to include Summer in the discussion with pleasant comments such as “You would like her, Summer; she’s the sweetest child,” and “Did I tell you about the time Limmel took me to the dance in Belknap?” She spoke a lot about her late husband, Limmel, and even laughed once or twice about her memories of him.
Even so, supper was a strained affair. Martha hadn’t allowed Summer to help with the preparations, and she sat in sullen silence throughout the meal, her hateful gaze fixed on Summer, as if she could drive her away by mere wishing. Just as Amelia had taken her pain and fury out on Lance, Martha Truesdale seemed to blame Summer for all the losses the settlers had ever suffered, especially the raid in which her daughter had been killed. Summer was glad to escape the hostile atmosphere.
She thought she might have to sleep in the barn, but Amelia claimed to want her presence. As she’d done for the past week, she cleaned and salved Amelia’s burns and cuts, which seemed to be healing, and helped her sister into a nightgown.
She was tucking Amelia into the small tester bed, the way Melly had always done for her during her childhood, when Amelia suddenly turned a pleading gaze on her. “I want to go home, Summer. To Sky Valley.”
“Yes, of course.” She bent to kiss her sister’s forehead. “Whatever you want, Melly.”
“I don’t want to stay here any longer.” Tears filled her eyes. “Too many memories…”
“Yes, I know.”
“Will you take me home?”
“Certainly, Melly.”
“Tomorrow? I can’t—”
She broke off as a rap sounded on the door. Martha Truesdale shuffled in, garbed in a black nightcap and woolen wrapper. Even her nightdress was black, and she hovered at Amelia’s bedside like some malevolent crow hungering for carrion. Summer wanted to cringe, but she maintained her position by the bed, in case Amelia needed protection.
It was she whom Martha wished harm, however, Summer realized. Mrs. Truesdale said good night stiffly to Amelia, and then added with a venomous glance at Summer, “I hope for all our sakes you know what you’re doing, Amelia, inviting her into our house. I just hope she doesn’t take it into her head to murder us all in our beds.”
A streak of fury raced through Summer, but she forced herself to take a calming breath. It hurt, though, when her sister lowered her eyelashes and looked away instead of coming to her defense.