“Blade, I …I think I’m going to faint.”
In one swift movement he dropped his pen and caught her sagging form, cradling her head against his chest. He spoke to the braves in clipped, guttural words. As they left the tent, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to a camp chair. He knelt in front of her and took her hands. “It’s okay. They’re gone now.”
Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Theodora gazed into his anxious eyes. “I’m …I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “I just keep remembering that trooper and what they did to him.”
“They didn’t do anything to him, Miss Gordon,” he corrected in a terse voice. “A Gros Ventre hunting party murdered Pilcher. The Sioux happen to be allies of the Cheyenne.”
“Good Lord,” she cried, “what difference does that make? They’re all vicious savages, aren’t they?”
His tone revealed a glacial anger. “Yes, I guess in your eyes we are, Miss Gordon.” He dropped her hands into her lap, rose with the grace of a mountain cat, and returned to the map table.
As soon as the sun began to set, the squaws set up long trestle tables in the fort’s square. Huge racks of buffalo meat were skewered on sharp sticks and placed over open fires. The women, mostly Oglala Sioux, stirred an aromatic broth in enormous kettles into which they dropped fresh vegetables from their gardens. The smell of the stew permeated the air, tantalizing the travelers.
Relieved for once of his cooking duties, Julius Twiggs sat beside Theodora on the wooden porch, enjoying the slight breeze. “Can rest my weary bones at last, Miss Theo,” he said as he rocked back and forth in a worn bentwood rocker. “Tomorrow come soon enough.”
From her place on an old caned chair Theodora looked at his wrinkled face, its cocoa color heightened by his white grizzled hair. “You’ve earned a rest, Julius. From now on I’ll give you more help with the cooking.”
“No, Miss Theo. You work with Captain. Very important.” Theodora flushed at the mention of Blade, remembering his anger at her comment about the Indians earlier that day. After her condemnation of the Sioux, they’d finished the cartography, but they’d spoken only when necessary. He’d been cold and distant and proud, and Theodora had felt an aching loneliness as she’d worked beside him.
Why should she feel guilty? she asked herself, listening to the creak of Julius’s rocking chair. It seemed to measure out the slow, uninspired half-life she’d been living since Tom’s death. She’d felt miserable for so long that she didn’t know why Blade’s aloofness even bothered her.
When she’d called the Indians savages, she’d meant to include him. And they both knew it. Suddenly she was overcome with shame. He hadn’t been responsible for Tom’s death or Pilcher’s ghastly murder. She was using him as a scapegoat to relieve her own guilt. It was her own carelessness that had caused her and Tom to get lost on the plains that afternoon two weeks ago. And God knew, she’d give anything to live that day over again. Why then couldn’t she offer Blade the same understanding and forgiveness that she knew she must eventually give herself? She had to put the past behind them and give the half-Indian captain a chance to prove himself.
Her solemn reverie was interrupted when Peter joined them. He smiled companionably, for they hadn’t had a chance to speak to each other all day. “Well, I guess I’d better take my turn in the river, before we’re called to eat,” Peter said.
Theodora returned his good-natured smile. “I spent part of the afternoon washing myself and my clothes there. And I can assure you, that water feels wonderful after the dry days on the trail.”
Twiggs flashed his gold tooth at them. “Hallelujah, don’t this beat all? Bathing, and laundry, and women’s cooking. Yes, sir. In the lap of luxury now. Might stay in this chair and never get up. No how. Just stay here and rock for the rest of my life.”
“That does sound mighty good,” Peter agreed as he turned to go. “But I, for one, am looking forward to a meal.”
Supper that night was good enough to tempt a saint during Lent. Everyone ate until they were too full to move. Then one of the fort’s engages appeared with a fiddle tucked under his chin. As he filled the night air with its sweet, melodious sound a corporal pulled out his harmonica and joined the serenade. Spontaneously, the French Canadians began to clap, and they left their places at the tables and formed a double line. One after another the soldiers joined them, egging each other on as first one man and then another broke into an impromptu dance skipping down the column and showing off his skill with a wide now-top-that grin.
As the players struck up “Jimmie Crack Corn,” Peter came up to Theodora and bowed formally. His blue eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. “I’d be honored if you’d dance with me, Miss Gordon.”
“Oh, Peter, I’d love to,” Theodora exclaimed. “But I don’t know how.”
“That’s no problem. Come on. I’ll show you.”
Leading her between the two rows of men, Peter swung Theodora on his arm. It was amazingly simple. All she had to do was skip down to the center, let Peter swing her around, and then sashay back to the end of the line. After Peter, Lieutenant Fletcher asked for a turn.
Theodora danced with everyone, including Zeke, kicking her heels and laughing out loud for the first time since Tom’s death. Fontenelle had generously provided several bottles of wine and a keg of brandy, and she felt giddy and excited from the alcohol’s effect.
The men never let her stop, each one claiming a turn, until she was completely exhausted.
“Wait! Wait!” she cried at last, fanning herself with her hand. As she gasped for air, she plopped down in the rocker on Fontenelle’s porch. She put up one palm in a plea for mercy. “No more!”
Although he was the only man who hadn’t asked her for a dance, Blade was immediately at her side. At a quiet shake of his head, the men acceded, boisterously finishing the reel themselves, until everyone agreed that it was time to stop and catch their breath. When the music died, Blade bent over and spoke in her ear. The fresh scent of his skin and hair mingled with the spicy aroma of the cheroots in his shirt pocket. His deep voice sent waves of longing through her. “I’ll escort you back to your tent, Miss Gordon. I believe the party’s over.”
Realizing it was, indeed, time to go, Theodora smothered a sigh. She forced her tone to be light. “We’ll regret our carefree ways tomorrow, Captain, but I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun.”
“If the men don’t get to bed soon, they’ll sleep right through the morning. And until you say good-night, not one of them is going to turn in.” Blade reached behind her and dropped her shawl across her shoulders, his strong fingers lingering in a gentle caress.
Theodora flushed at the sensuous quality in his voice. She stood and took the ends of the woolen shawl in her fingers. By now the effect of the wine was slight, for she’d nearly danced its euphoria away. Only a soft, warm glow remained. “Good night, gentlemen,” she called, curtsying to the men who stood around the tables talking. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
At her words Lieutenant Fletcher hurried toward her. He stopped abruptly when he saw Blade. The two officers stared at each other in a silent confrontation, and the space between them crackled with animosity. Then Fletcher bowed to Theodora and backed away.
Blade placed her hand on his arm, nodded to the watching crowd, and led her through the square and out the fort’s gate. For the first time that night Theodora noticed the summer moon. It was full and ripe, like a huge peach suspended high in the sky. She gazed up at it and hummed one of the tunes they’d played, swaying slightly to the melody as she walked beside him.
“I take it you enjoyed the dancing,” Blade said, his voice so soft she could barely hear the words.
“Very much. And to think I’d never danced the Virginia Reel in my entire life until I came to Fort Laramie. Imagine such a grand debut right here in the middle of nowhere.”
“We’re not exactly, ‘nowhere,’ Miss Gordon. My tribe camped many times in this area when I was a boy.” In th
e moonlight she could see the smile that hovered at the corners of his mouth. “This spot is a major crossroads,” he continued. “The Northern Cheyenne took the north-south trail countless times in the past and still do. The east-to-west route was an old buffalo trail that the Indians took on their hunts. The beaver trappers followed it into the mountains.”
“I’m sorry,” Theodora said, thankful that he hadn’t taken offense at her remark. “I forget sometimes that all of this is quite familiar to you.”
They walked past the cluster of Sioux tipis toward the row of military tents by the river. Silvery light bathed the landscape, making the dark silhouettes of the tents stand out against the pale water.
Partly to cover her embarrassment and, in part, to make up for her narrow-minded remarks of the afternoon, Theodora peered up at the tall man beside her. “What was it like? Being brought up … as an Indian?”
He swung her around to face him. The moon lit his strong features, accentuating the high cheekbones and straight nose. “I wasn’t raised as an Indian, Miss Gordon. Nazestae: I am Cheyenne. At least half of me is. And I’m damn proud of that half. My Cheyenne family gave me a childhood filled with love and acceptance. They expected me to behave with courage and honor.” Hearing the others draw nearer, he took her elbow once again and led the way down the dirt path. “There were times, growing up, when I was the butt of pranks by the other Indian boys because of my French heritage, but my Indian family taught me to be proud of who I was. What I learned at my grandfather’s side about the meaning of being a Cheyenne stood me in good stead when I was in New Orleans, and once again the target of ignorance and prejudice.”
Theodora winced at his words, for she knew that she was as guilty of bigotry as the others in his past. She hoped he’d accept her next words as a peace offering. “That must have been very difficult, Captain. Trying to adapt to such a totally different culture.”
Responding to the compassion in her voice, he slid his fingers down her arm and caressed the palm of her hand with featherlike strokes. His light touch sent waves of pleasure through her. She laced her fingers in his, afraid to say anything lest her voice tremble and betray the devastating effect he had on her. Since she’d met him, she was both frightened and attracted at the same time, and this confusion had only deepened during the weeks on the trail.
As they reached her tent, Theodora peered up at him, surprised to find delight at her response gleaming in his eyes.
He took both her hands and lightly rubbed his thumbs across her knuckles. His dark brows drew together in thought. “Life’s never easy. But a man doesn’t back down from a difficult situation. No one ever solved anything by running away.”
Together, they turned and looked back at the fort. Like a medieval castle with its peasant huts huddled around it, it stood high above the water’s edge.
“It’s really beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” she whispered. “It looks so strangely peaceful.”
Slowly, he pulled her to him. His voice was velvety soft as he bent over her, and she felt his cool breath fan her lowered lashes. “Don’t worry about the nearness of the Sioux, little bluestocking. They’re friendly. Just very curious.”
“So I learned this afternoon when they came into your tent. Are the Sioux and the Cheyenne tribes similar?” For no reason she trembled as she watched the mobile line of his upper lip under the thick mustache, and she tried to keep her mind on their conversation.
His even teeth flashed in a smile, and she detected a hint of amusement in his deep voice at her sudden interest in Indian customs. “There are many similarities, vehoka. But each tribe tends to pay more attention to the differences. Little things are very important to the Indian. Take, for example, just moving about inside the lodge. No one with any manners would ever walk between the fire and another person. It’s not polite.” The creases around his dark eyes deepened as he chuckled softly. “Even a child knows that a civilized person always walks behind his host. There are countless rules of daily life that a white man has no knowledge of. That’s why the Indian has always complained of the white man’s bad manners. The ignorant veho just doesn’t know how to go on.”
“Sounds very complicated,” Theodora replied as she searched frantically for something more to say. She dragged her gaze from his mouth to discover he was watching her with a quizzical look, no doubt wondering at her total change in mood from earlier in the day.
“It is,” he answered with a wry grin. “Every bit as complex as learning to take tea and biscuits with my grandmother in her fancy Louisiana drawing room.”
Shocked, Theodora tried to picture him as a twelve-year-old, with two long black braids and a hoop in one ear, dressed up like a little Southern gentleman and sitting down to afternoon tea with his starched and proper grandmother. She burst out laughing.
Seeing her upturned face brimming with merriment, Blade felt the need for her flame up inside him. Her musical laugh triggered a hunger he’d held tightly under control since the morning he’d found her sleeping beneath her petticoat tent. The day before her brother had died of cholera. He’d been afraid since then that he’d never again see her as she was now, her eyes filled with laughter. God, how he wanted her. Perhaps if Tom hadn’t died …if Pilcher hadn’t been so savagely murdered …
He ignored the sounds of the camp around them. Sliding his hands over her shoulders, he gently rubbed her collarbone. “I’ll go inside and light your lamp,” he said, his voice husky. Frightened by the magnetism that pulled her to him, Theodora slipped away from his touch. Her voice sounded high pitched and slightly frantic to her own ears. “Oh, you don’t have to. I can find the lantern in the dark. I know right where I left it.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted the tent flap and went inside. “Where is it?” he called.
“Right beside the center tripod.” She stood to one side of the opening and held back the canvas, allowing the moonlight to illuminate the shelter.
Blade knelt in the middle of the tent and groped in the darkness. Then he struck the match with a snap, and the soft glow of the lantern filled the interior, throwing long shadows across the canvas walls.
In the doorway, Theodora froze.
The sharp intake of her breath brought Blade to his feet. He saw it instantly.
There on her bedroll coiled a huge rattlesnake. Its beady, malevolent eyes glinted in the moving light. Its jaws were opened wide, revealing twin sabers of death.
Chapter 13
The sound of the snake’s rattle filled the tent. With one swift, fluid movement, Blade pulled his knife from its sheath and hurled it. The serpent lunged the instant the knife left his hand and met the cold steel in midair, openmouthed like a lover. The force of the razor-sharp blade split its jaws apart. The forward momentum of the knife carried it, with its gruesome cargo, across the shelter, and the blade struck the taut canvas side, impaling the prairie rattler. The long slithery body writhed and twitched convulsively, its death throes the syncopated rattle of a baby’s toy.
Theodora stared transfixed as the rattler’s agony gradually ceased and the tent became still. She turned to Blade and tried desperately to breathe, but it was as though someone had knocked the wind out of her. Her vision blurred and a gray fog enveloped her.
“Blade,” she whispered. Her voice sounded faint and far away. She stretched out her hand, trying to reach him where he stood halfway across the tent. Valiantly, she fought the darkness that closed in on her, then took one tottering step and pitched forward.
Blade caught her before she reached the ground. He pulled her to her feet and cradled her head against his solid chest. The feel of his strong arms around her brought a stab of poignant longing to Theodora. A yearning for the safety of her home and family nearly doubled her over with its intensity, and had she not been held upright, she would have crumpled in a heap. Deep sobs wracked her.
“Oh, Blade.” She wept against his soft buckskin shirt. “If o-only I could go home. If only I h-had never c-come to this
horrible place.”
“Hush,” he whispered. He kissed the top of her hair and buried his face in her curls. “Shhh, zehemehotaz. It’s all right.” He swayed back and forth, comforting her.
“You were r-right. I … I n-never should h-have come. I should h-have listened to you. But I was too stubborn. I don’t b-belong out here.” Theodora pulled her head back and wiped her cheeks with her palms. She looked up at him and her voice cracked as she spoke. “If I had listened to you back at Fort Leavenworth, Tom would be alive today.” Her lips trembled uncontrollably, and she covered them with her fingers. She bent her head, resting it against Blade’s chest. “Dear God, why couldn’t it have been me instead of Tom?”
“Don’t, Theodora. Don’t do this to yourself.” Blade’s arms tightened around her. His voice was hoarse with an inner anguish. “No one’s to blame, least of all you. You had no way of knowing the risks involved. I’m the one responsible for this expedition and for every member in it. Don’t ever blame yourself for your brother’s death.”
She lifted her gaze and recognized in his eyes genuine concern for her. Had it always been there? she wondered. Was his intention from the very beginning to protect her from harm? This fierce soldier who’d stormed and railed at her after Tom’s death—what would it be like to be cherished by this strong, dominant male? Instinctively, she knew that once he gave his love, it would be a commitment he’d never break. He was the kind of man who valued his word above his life. A man of tremendous pride. Not one to be flirted with or teased, the way the young ladies back home enjoyed leading on their beaux in order to satisfy their own shallow pride with a proposal they had no intention of accepting. One move on Theodora’s part, one tiny hint of willingness, and Blade would possess her. Completely. Somehow, she sensed it, even though—despite her avowal to the contrary—she knew only the most basic physical facts about the mating of human beings. With him, it would be total and consuming, without the restraints dictated by the white man’s upright and rigid social mores. She knew she must pull away from him now before it was too late.
Cherish the Dream Page 20
