Free Eagle’s Song by Rosanne Bittner

but Abbie, being Abbie, had made it through, stood here now as strong as ever … and he could swear she seemed happy to see him.
    Abbie reached out to him. “Jeremy! You came! Thank God you came! Come and let me hold you, son.”
    He could hardly make his legs move. Why had hestayed away so long? Why had he waited so long to explain his heritage to Mary? He’d been so sure she would leave him. He had let that fear, and his shame in his Indian blood keep him away from his precious mother all these years. He had allowed it to take him away from the ranch at a time when his father dearly needed his help, and now he would never have the chance to tell his father he loved him, never be able to feel the man’s strong arms around him. But sometimes a mother’s arms could be just as comforting.
    He walked toward her, and in a moment she was in his arms, weeping against his chest, and he, too, was crying. “
Na-hko-eehe
,” he said, surprised he’d remembered the Cheyenne word for Mother. Abbie wept harder, clinging tightly to him.
    “You were so loved, Jeremy,” she told him. “So much more … than you ever knew. He’s … here, Jeremy. Zeke is here. I feel his spirit everywhere, and I … I know he’s holding you at this very moment, just as I am.”
    The words cut like a knife, and Jeremy broke down, unable to control his own emotions. “I love you, Mother,” he finally managed to say. “Not a day has gone by … that I haven’t thought about you … and that’s the God’s truth. The same goes for … my father. I’ll never forgive myself … for deserting him like I did. I never … I just never imagined a man like Zeke Monroe could die.”
    “We all meet death, son. No one is immune from it, not even men like Zeke. I was so afraid … I, too, would die without seeing you again.”
    She pulled away, wiping at her eyes, and Jeremy handed her a clean handkerchief from a pocket of his tweed suit jacket. By then his wife was there, handing him a handkerchief from her handbag. “I’m Mary,” she told Abbie, “Jeremy’s wife. And I must say, you’reeven lovelier than Jeremy’s description of you. But you’re so much tinier than I had pictured.”
    Abbie smiled through her tears. “And what had you pictured?”
    “I’m not sure. I guess, from the way Jeremy described what a strong, resilient woman you are, how you’ve lived with Indians and all … I pictured a big, stout woman who would be rather frightening and overbearing.”
    Abbie laughed lightly, glancing at Jeremy. “What on earth have you told her about me?”
    He watched her lovingly. “Only the truth, that you’re one in a million. There probably isn’t another woman in this country who could have put up with Zeke Monroe and survived what you’ve been through.”
    Abbie shook her head, wiping at her nose and eyes again before her vision cleared enough that she could take a good look at Mary. She was lovely, with an air of elegance about her that spoke of someone who’d grown up in wealth, Abbie decided. Her soft green dress was simple in design, but obviously of fine quality material, and it fit as though specially made for her. Her straw hat was trimmed with dried flowers and a green ribbon that matched her dress. She was slender, her ivory-skinned face showing rouge in just the right places, her gentle brown eyes sparkling with sincerity and love—and wet with her own tears.
    “Thank you for welcoming Jeremy as you have,” Mary told her. “This was not easy for him. He didn’t stay away out of meanness or because he didn’t care. It was because of me, Mrs. Monroe. He was afraid to tell me, afraid he’d lose me because I come from a wealthy family in Denver and he figured they would—”
    “You needn’t explain,” Abbie interrupted. “I understand these things far better than you could ever imagine.” She looked up at Jeremy. “After a while you wereafraid to come back simply because you’d been gone so long and were