Page 88 of The Enchanted Land

His legs were clad in buckskin with fringe down the sides. He looked exactly like the Apaches who had taken her to San Francisco. Her voice shook. “What do you want?”

The Indian dismounted fluidly. He stared at Morgan and at Adam and took a step closer. Morgan turned and picked up Adam, pulling him close to her. He pushed her away. He wanted to walk, not to be carried. Morgan pulled him even tighter.

“Go away. Leave us alone.” Adam frowned at his mother. What was wrong?

“I’m really sorry to have frightened you so. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gordon Matthews.”

Morgan’s eyes widened. The Indian’s voice was deep, rather musical. It was refined. His words were carefully articulated and the endings sharply pronounced, unlike the Kentuckians Morgan had always known.

He watched her closely, as if waiting for something. When she pulled Adam closer, Gordon shrugged and sat down on the bank of the little stream.

“Yes,” he said. “You do look like your pictures.” He turned and smiled up at her, showing even, white teeth. “I really shouldn’t do this, I know. Uncle Charley used to say I played at being an Indian. Itisreally rather ostentatious of me, isn’t it?”

“Osten…” Morgan loosened her hold on Adam, who had decided to remove the trim from her riding habit. She was confused.

“I really enjoy the game, and I get to play it so seldom these days. On the ranch the men like to forget that I’m half-Indian. So I like to dress up whenever I can. I have a great deal of trouble with my hair. You see, it tends to curl, so I have to use a little lard on it. I’m sure my ancestors would disown me for not using buffalo grease, but these are modern times, are they not?” He paused.

“Morgan, please sit by me. I may get a cramp in my neck if you keep standing.”

Morgan took a step farther from him. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

Gordon sighed and then stood up. “I think one needs to keep in better shape to play Indian.” He rubbed his neck. “The name Gordon Matthews means nothing to you?”

“No.”

“Your father never mentioned me in his letters?”

“My father? Letters?”

“Morgan, please. Stop being so frightened. I won’t hurt you. Here, let me take Adam and then we can talk.”

Morgan twisted her body so that Adam was farther from him.

“It’s your decision, but he is ruining your habit. Adam—look.” He held out the beaded pouch and Adam reached for it. Gordon held his arms to Adam and Adam lunged toward him. Gordon caught the sturdy boy. “Another year and he’ll be bigger than you are, Morgan. Now, let’s sit down.”

Gordon sat down again, took off the pouch, and gave it to Adam, who happily toddled off with his prize.

“He’s a very handsome young man. I believe he’s going to look like his father. Seth is a large man, isn’t he?” Gordon turned back to look at Morgan. “You know, you look very much like your father when you frown like that. All right, since you don’t know, I’ll explain. Uncle Charley always said I took hours to get to a point. My father always said my education had interfered with my thinking. They were probably both correct.” He chuckled ruefully.

“I am serious, Morgan. Unless you sit down, I won’t explain one thing. My neck is really beginning to hurt.”

Morgan’s mind was whirling. This was preposterous. He looked like an Indian, one of the dirty Indians that had traveled with Jacques. But he sounded like an educated Yankee. She sat down on the bank, several feet away from him.

“I run the Three Crowns.”

“Three Crowns?”

“You really don’t know, do you? Your father and my father were partners in the ranch south of Albuquerque, the ranch called the Three Crowns. My father was killed in an accident three years ago.”

Morgan saw a look of pain cross his face. Adam came back to them and pulled at the silver bracelet on Gordon’s upper arm. Gordon smiled at the boy, removed the bracelet, and handed it to him. Adam promptly put it in his mouth, tasted it, and then walked away again, holding Gordon’s possessions, one in each hand.

“He certainly is an energetic boy. I’ll wager he never gives you a moment’s peace.”

“Go on with your story, Mr. Matthews.”

“Gordon. I don’t understand how you know nothing of your father when he knew everything about you. There are pictures, drawings of you, everywhere in the house. They show you at every age. A lot of them are of you on horseback, and some are of you peeping out a carriage window.”

“No one drew pictures of me. How could they be of me? I never saw my father again after we left New Mexico. My mother refused to answer my questions about him.”

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