“Jimmy never knew?” I whispered, devastated for the man who raised me.
“I never told him.”
“But then . . . how did . . . how did he find me?” I had no other conclusion to draw. Somehow Jimmy had found me . . . and he had taken me from my mother.
“I don't know,” Stella whispered. “It doesn't make any sense.”
“Winona never knew her father?” Wilson asked gently. He was the only one who seemed capable of stringing two thoughts together.
“We allowed her to think my parents were her parents. I called them Mom and Dad and that's what she called them, and we all lived together when I wasn't traveling. My mother raised her while I continued to work as a liason for Indian Affairs. And in 1980 President Carter signed legislation that restored federal recognition to the Paiute tribes and called for a Paiute Reservation. I like to think I had something to do with it. It made the mess I'd made of my personal life a little easier to bear.”
“But what about Jimmy?” I whispered, stunned that he might have never even known he had a child. The Jimmy I knew had lived so simply and had had so little. I felt anger rise in my chest at this woman who had never even told him about his daughter.
“I didn't know how to find him, Blue. I should have tried harder, I know. But it was a different time. In the 1970s, you didn't just make a quick phone call to an Indian reservation. In fact, you can hardly do that now! I managed some contact with Jimmy's mother, but she died a few years after Winona was born. Jimmy's brother said he didn't know where he was. I was pretty conflicted. I loved Jimmy, but I had traded him for my dreams . . . and I lost him. I thought someday we would find each other again, and maybe I would be able to explain.”
“Maybe Winona did find him,” Wilson pondered out loud. “She was seen in Oklahoma. Why else would she have gone to Oklahoma?”
“But . . . I don't think Jimmy ever went back. She wouldn't have found him there,” Stella protested, clearly befuddled by it all.
“But she wouldn't have known that, would she? Is there any way she might have discovered who her father was?”
“My dad passed away when Winnie was fifteen, and my mother died the very next year. Their deaths were very hard on Winnie. I decided it was time to tell her that I was her mother. I thought it would make her feel less alone, not moreso. I don't seem to have very good instincts with such things because she didn't deal with it well. She wanted to know everything about her father . . . about why he didn't stick around. I had to explain that it was my fault. But I could tell she didn't believe me. I showed her some pictures of him. I wonder if she was the one who took these.” Stella fingered the empty squares as she continued with her story.
“She started acting out in school. She had some run-ins with the police over drugs. It wasn't long after that she got pregnant. All talk of her father ceased. And I thought she had let it go, that she'd moved on to other concerns. We never spoke of her father again.”
Stella Hidalgo began putting the photo album back in the box when she hesitated and felt around the box, pulling various items from inside.
“The letters are gone,” she announced and looked up at me. “The letters are gone! I kept all of Jimmy's letters. They were here. I haven't opened this box since I showed Winona those pictures more than twenty years ago.”
“The letters would have given her some valuable information, including a return address,” Wilson proposed. Stella nodded, and she was silent while she digested the possibility that Winona had gone looking for her father.
“The last time I talked to Winnie, she kept ranting about men who never take responsibility . . . about the injustices of life.” Stella's voice was thoughtful, and her expression suggested she was examining the memory. “I just thought she was talking about Ethan. She said she was going to confront him and make him answer for what he'd done. I thought she was talking about Ethan,” Stella insisted again, almost pleading. “I was afraid. She was so angry, talking about getting even. I even called Ethan and warned him. I didn't like Ethan Jacobsen, or his parents, for that matter, but I didn't want him hurt, for Winnie's sake as much as for his own.”
“She didn't find Jimmy in Oklahoma, but maybe Jimmy's brother told her about Cheryl,” I said, chewing on possibilities. Stella frowned at me, clearly puzzled.
“Cheryl? Cheryl was quite a bit younger than Jimmy. She was only about twelve when Jimmy and I met, and she didn't live on the reservation. Her mother was a white girl who had an affair with Jimmy's father. I only knew about her because Jimmy had a lot of hard feelings toward his father, and the affair was a big part of it.”
It was hard for me to imagine Cheryl at twelve. She was in her late forties now and didn't wear her age well.
“Cheryl lives in Nevada. She raised me when Jimmy died,” I supplied, hoping Jimmy's death wouldn't come as a shock, but my grandmother nodded as if she knew.
“Jimmy's brother sent me a letter when they found Jimmy's remains. He never mentioned anything about you,” Stella said tearfully.
“Why would he? I never met any of them. They knew nothing about me,” I explained.
We sat in silence, each of us mentally unwinding the tangle of secrets and supposition that had led us to this point in the story.
“Jimmy said he found me in a restaurant booth. I'd been asleep. He waited with me until my mother returned. He told Cheryl that that my mother acted strange, but he thought it was because he was a stranger, sitting with her child. Maybe it was because she recognized him, and he had taken her by surprise.”
“We know Jimmy didn't hurt your mother, Blue. The police found the man who did,” Wilson offered emphatically, as if he knew where my thoughts had wandered.
“Jimmy would never have hurt a soul,” Stella agreed. “But I don't understand how you ended up with him.”
“He said I was asleep on the front seat of his truck the next morning.”
“Then that's what happened,” Stella said firmly. “Jimmy Echohawk wasn't a liar. Winona must have followed him and left you with him. Maybe she planned to come back. Maybe she wanted to force him to acknowledge her. Maybe she was high on drugs, or desperate . . .” Stella offered up excuse after excuse before her voice faded off. Whatever her reasons, Winona had done what she'd done, and no one would ever really know why.
“Jimmy was my grandfather,” I marveled, suddenly arriving at the conclusion that had been obvious since my grandmother had shown me his picture. “My name really is Echohawk.” And all at once, I didn't feel like crying anymore. I felt like laughing. I felt like throwing my hands up and dancing, praising and praying. I wished I could talk to Jimmy. To tell him that I loved him. To tell him how sorry I was for sometimes doubting him. Wilson and Stella were watching me, and Wilson's jaw was tight and his eyes were bright with emotion. I leaned in and kissed his lips, right in front of my grandmother. She would have to get used to it. Then I looked at her and spoke directly to her.
“When Cheryl told me Jimmy wasn't my father, it was the worst day of my life. I had lost him, not only physically, but in every other way. I had no idea who I was. I convinced myself I didn't know who he was either.” I paused to corral the emotion that wanted to spill over. “But he was mine all along. And I was his.”
Stella had begun to cry. When I finished talking she covered her face with her hands, and a moan of such torment broke free that I knelt in front of her and did something I would never have been able to do before Wilson. He had mourned with me, held me, propped me up, pushed me forward, and asked for nothing in return. And because he had done that for me, I was able to put my arms around her. I hugged her tightly, and I didn't let go. I felt her sag against me, and then she was clinging to me desperately, sobbing, grieving for a man she had mistreated, for a daughter she had failed, and for a granddaughter she had lost. So many secrets, so many poor choices, so much pain.
Chapter Thirty
In the end, I went to see Ethan Jacobsen, too. I was tired of secrets, tired of skeletons, t
ired of the not knowing. I was shaking out the cobwebs and tearing down the heavy drapes, letting the light shine in on a life that had been nothing but dark corners. It wasn't a long meeting nor a particularly pleasant one. Ethan Jacobsen was just a regular guy with a plump wife, a couple of cute blonde kids – Saylor and Sadie – and a spotty dog. My father looked nothing like his high school picture. His youthful scowl and his spiky blond hair had been replaced by a benign smile and a balding head. He had grown soft and middle aged. The only thing that time hadn't altered were his arresting blue eyes. He stared at me with those blue eyes, and I'm certain he noted I had them too. I'm sure he noted my black hair and olive skin and the resemblance I held to a girl he had once certainly cared for, at least for a while.
But he didn't deny me. He told me I was his father and that he would like to get to know me. He asked me about my life, my dreams, and my future with Wilson. I answered vaguely. He hadn't earned the right to confidences. But maybe someday. I promised I would be in touch. I wanted to get to know my sisters. Cedar City was only about three hours from Boulder City, and I was willing to drive. Family had taken on a whole new importance to me because I had a daughter who would someday want all the answers. And I would be able to give them to her. Every last detail.
I asked my grandmother once if it was worth it . . . the work she'd traded my grandfather for. I didn't want to hurt her, but I needed to understand. She rattled off a bunch of facts and interesting details.
“Well, in 1984, the Paiutes received 4,470 acres of land scattered throughout southwestern Utah and a $2.5 million fund from which we can draw interest for economic development and tribal services. Our health care is so much better, as well as our education opportunites. We have been able to build new houses, open and operate a couple of factories. But we have to continue to fight for water rights, to keep our land, to keep our people thriving. There is always work to be done.” She smiled brightly, but her hands shook, and she had trouble meeting my eyes. After a while she spoke again.
“The truth is, on a personal level, it wasn't really worth it, Blue. When it's all said and done there are so many worthy causes, so much work to be done, so much good to do, but if we sacrifice everything for a cause, we tend to become a spokesperson instead of a lover, an organizer instead of a wife, a mouthpiece instead of a mother. I gave everything else away in the name of a greater good, but look how many people I hurt. Look at the ripple effects of thinking my life's work was more important than the people in my life.”
“I've been thinking about that story, the one you told me when Melody was born,” Wilson himmed, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed. He had been practicing his cello in my tiny sitting room, the way he did every night, unless I was carving, in which case we filled the basement with sweet strings and sanding. The days of listening under the vent were long gone.
“The one you said sucked?” I murmured, wishing he would play another song. I was half-asleep in my recliner, the deep tones making me mellow and drowsy. It was like an elixir, and I was addicted to both the man and his music.
“Yes. That's the one. It was horrible. And to think you eschewed Ivanhoe. What was the hunter's name again?”
“Waupee. White Hawk.”
“That's right. White Hawk loved a star girl, they were happy together, but she decided to takes their child and float up into the sky, leaving him behind.”
“So why have you been thinking about it?” I yawned, concluding that he wasn't going to play anything else until he had worked through whatever was bothering him.
“I just realized that it's Jimmy's story.” Wilson plucked his strings absentmindedly, his luminous eyes unfocused, distracted by his thoughts. “Stella floated away and took his child. Even the name is similar.”
I hadn't thought of that. But Wilson was right. It was very like Jimmy's story. Except Jimmy didn't get a happy ending.
“But the star maiden came back to White Hawk, Wilson. I didn't ever finish the story. Her son missed his father, so the star maiden came back for him–”
“Did you know that Stella means star?” Wilson interrupted, as if he'd just stumbled over the realization.
“It does?”
“Yes. So we have a Hawk and a Star. And a Sapana.” Wilson counted each name on his fingers. “It's his story,” he marveled.
I shook my head, disagreeing. “Jimmy didn't ever get his family back. The star maiden's father turned his daughter and Waupee and their son into hawks so they could fly between heaven and earth and be together. But none of us ever got to be together.”
“But you came back to Jimmy, Blue. You and he were together.”
“I guess I did,” I agreed. “But Sapana isn't in that story, luv.” I smiled at him tenderly, using his own term of endearment. “She has a story all her own.”
Wilson laid down his cello and stood, leaning over the recliner until he hovered only inches above me, grey eyes on blue, his mouth on mine. He spoke against my lips.
“Of course she does . . . Savana Blue. And it's a story just waiting to be told.”
“A little blackbird, pushed from the nest?” I whispered, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Or placed there. It's all in the way you tell the story.”
“Once upon a time there was a little bird who was placed in a nest. Wanted. Cherished. Unafraid, because she knew she was a hawk, a beautiful bird, worthy of awe, deserving of love . . .”
The End
Acknowledgments
Having grown up in Utah, I love to explore the history of the people of my home state. Shivwits Paiute Reservation is indeed located in the St. George area of Southern Utah. Larry Shivwa and Stella Hidalgo are fictional characters, as are all the characters in my story, but the plight of Paiute people is factual and historical.
The story of Waupee and the Star Maiden is an Arapaho story. The tale of Tabuts the Wise Wolf and the sticks is a story of the Paiute people. Like many of the Native legends and stories, these stories have great lessons and significance for all people.
A big thank you for all the research assistance I received on this book. Andy Espinoza, retired Sergeant of the Barstow P.D. provided invaluable information on procedure and even read parts of my manuscript to make sure I was realistic. Any mistakes I have made are my own. Paul Mangelson, seasoned patrolman, talked me through parts of the storyline and even gave me ideas for other novels. To the real Tiffa Snook, British Blogger extraordinare, thank you for your input on all things British! My heartfelt thanks to Steve Bankhead for spending an evening showing me his wonderful carvings and answering all my questions about tools and wood
and inspiration so that I could make Blue's talent come alive.
Enormous gratitude goes to Lorraine Wallace, my former high school teacher and friend who has provided wonderful editing and support on my last two novels. To my mom, thank you for always being my first reader, and for making my stories better. And finally to all my family, friends, bloggers, and readers out there, thank you for your love, friendship and support!!
About the Author
Amy Harmon knew at an early age that writing was something she wanted to do–and she divided her time between writing songs and stories as she grew. Having grown up in the middle of wheat fields without a television, with only her books and her siblings to entertain her, she developed a strong sense of what made a good story. Amy Harmon has been a motivational speaker, a grade school teacher, a junior high teacher, a home school mom, and a member of the Grammy Award winning Saints Unified Voices Choir, directed by Gladys Knight. She released a Christian Blues CD in 2007 called "What I Know"–also available on Amazon and wherever digital music is sold. Her first two books, "Running Barefoot" and "Slow Dance in Purgatory" are rich with humor, heart, and fast paced story telling.
For more information about Amy and her books, visit:
Website
Facebook
Goodreads
Twitter
Books by Amy Harmon:
&n
bsp; Running Barefoot
Slow Dance in Purgatory
Prom Night in Purgatory
A Different Blue
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five