Deed to Damnation

All's Fair in Love and War

On June 25, 1876, the political forces that be, unleashed their fury on the native tribes that held on to the land that was rich in gold. The attack had been planned by General George Custer, a renowned soldier that Henry had crossed paths with during his military career. He was a savvy leader with more wins than losses in his extensive experience in fighting. But unfortunately for him, this day would be his last skirmish and Henry had a heavy hand in the outcome.
Both the Cheyenne and the Sioux were armed to the teeth and with Henry's guidance, the battle was practically over within the first day. It had been a slaughter really. It was apparent that the General had no idea about the sheer numbers of his opponents and with Henry's knowledge of military strategy and weapon smuggling, it had been over before it even started.
For Henry, there had been a certain thrill in wearing the native garb, easily disguising himself among the
braves, his face painted in the colors of war.
Taking the lives of the soldiers that had once been his brethren should have been more difficult than it had. But the bitterness that he held for the arrogant, self-serving government and its patriotic, yet blind lackeys, made his thirst for vengeance stronger than what his sense of honor should have been. Their callousness had brought the death of his commander years ago, a man he viewed much more of a father than his own.
The battle was not without its perils. He had fought through the day with all of the participating tribes' warriors, cutting the invading troops down easily, driven by the fact the U.S. forces had fired directly into the village, killing several women and children before all hell broke loose. It was cowardice and something Henry did not tolerate.
When his own brush with death happened, a large number of braves had just flanked one third of the three battling regiments. A bullet, whether clearly aimed or shot in panic, grazed his neck, sending a shock of pain and a surge of adrenaline that knocked him from his saddle. It was more than a graze actually. The slug had torn through a decent amount of flesh and the gash began bleeding heavily. It stunned him and the sky with its brilliant sun blurred together in a foggy mass as he laid on the ground for a few stupefying moments before reality took hold once again.
Henry Delarue had never feared death nor did he mind dishing it out. There had been numerous times that he had tempted the devil and almost lost and not once had he feared his end. But this time, as his heart rate calmed and the fog lifted, it was Ireland that he saw through the haze, her belly large with his child. And when he felt strong arms link under his to drag him to safety, he became furious. The idea of not seeing the birth, of not seeing HER again, threw him into a murderous rage that he unleashed on the hapless soldiers that were now in full retreat. They were trying to take what was his. Not just his land with gold and the protections that came with living within tribal territory but the future of his heir, the future of his wife. It occurred to him in that fleeting yet poignant moment that they were the most valuable of anything that had ever come into his possession. No one was going to take that from him and a fight to the death is exactly what his attackers got.
When the smoke cleared that early morning of June 27th, Henry didn't take part in the ritualistic mutilations of the dead enemies. Instead he retrieved the bodies of the Cheyenne, Sioux, Lakota and Arapaho that had lost their lives defending what was theirs. They deserved this tribute because without them, there would be no harvesting wealth and no future for his family on the homestead.
Family. It was a word that was absurdly foreign and invoked a feeling in him that he swore he did not possess. There was only one emotion that could pull forth such an unrestrained need to protect something other than his wealth. It was love. And it scared him more than death itself.

In the weeks since Henry had left and before she found out about the natives' victory at Little Big Horn, Ireland tried to remain calm and enjoy the comforts of Doctor Bordain's stately home.
The bedroom was much larger than her old one and boasted a large four poster bed with an overstuffed goose down mattress. It was quite fancy for what was supposed to be the servant's quarters but she thought maybe this is where the doctor entertained. It was no secret he enjoyed what her saloon had to offer besides booze and gambling.
When the news of the natives' victory finally did reach her, she had to keep her glee in check. Obviously, she couldn't express her joy at the 'enemy's' win over her country's military since most of the settlers saw the natives as beneath their European ancestry. They regarded them as a hindrance to the natural progression of a civilized nation. And according to Henry's letter, the tribes had beaten back the marauders and staked their claim on the land that had already been designated as theirs by the very people who had tried to steal it back. He told her of his injury but downplayed it. There was no mention of his epiphany as he lay stunned and bleeding that day. That was not something he was willing to think about nor discuss as he was still grappling with feeling any emotion that leaned toward sentiment.
"He'll be back soon!" Ireland told Missy as soon as she walked into the room.
Missy looked to Ireland who wore a smile of content. She had watched as her mistress tried to seem indifferent in the days of Henry's absence and the fact that there was a battle looming on the horizon. But she had known Ireland long enough to know the subtle signs of nervous tension that she displayed subconsciously. She would absently touch her small belly bump and stare off, deep in thought, biting her lip in trepidation. Her thoughts were on Henry and the idea of raising a child without a father definitely unnerved her, even if that father was Henry Delarue. But today there was a small smile that replaced the faraway stare and Missy was glad for it. Stress was not good for a woman in Ireland's condition.
"I wonder if this means you'll be going to the ranch?" Missy asked, placing a basket of sweet rolls on the small table.
"I don't think he's going to take me out of the doctor's sight." She said. "And that's just fine with me. I actually like being here. I don't miss the saloon at all even though I miss the girls."
"They're fine but they miss you too." Missy responded, as she prepared Ireland's lunch at the small butcher block table. "Joss made you strawberry jam."
The job of house mistress had fallen to Missy who hadn't complained that she was being stretched thin. She had inadvertently become that and Ireland's caretaker, two jobs that required a significant amount of attention. But everyday she did both, running the house and coming back with homemade goodies from Joss to keep Ireland fed and comfortable until Henry would come back. And although she didn't say it out loud, Missy was glad to hear that he would be coming home soon. Between those tasks and the doctor's occasional needs being met, she was getting depleted.