Cherish the Dream

by Kathleen Harrington

  Her torn, buttonless blouse was no hindrance for his searching fingers. He pushed aside the ends to cup the globe of one rounded breast. Beneath her camisole, it grew firm and full at his caress. He moved his lips to her jaw, raining light kisses across her cheek and down her neck, to flick his tongue in the hollow at the base of her throat.

  “Blade,” she gasped, and he thrilled at the husky, breathless sound of his name on her lips. He returned to devour her mouth, kissing her passionately, demandingly, his hand beneath her shoulders moving down her back to bring her hips closer to his aching need. She responded with a light touch of her tongue on his lips, and he drew it inside to greet it with his own.

  He pushed the lacy camisole down and found the fine batiste of her chemise, the last sheer barrier between his work roughened fingers and the silken smoothness of her breast. Beneath his thumb its crest became hard and firm. He lowered his head and suckled her through the thin chemise, laving her till the damp material clung to her rosy peak. He heard her soft cry of surprised pleasure and moved to explore her other breast, her nipple a taut, sweet bud against his tongue.

  She arched against him, a sigh of unfulfilled need tom from her throat, and he slid his hand down her hip, her soft leather skirt bunching as he pushed it aside. “Nameo, nihoatovaz,” he whispered, telling her of his hunger for her.

  Theodora felt him touch the waistband of her pantaloons and hurtled through the dizzying, all-consuming plane of sensual delight to earth and reality. Blade was murmuring to her in Cheyenne. The strange sounds pierced the passion-induced mists of her befuddled mind. Although the words were unfamiliar, she sensed his meaning. What was she doing? she asked herself in horror. He was half savage!

  The warnings of Wesley Fletcher echoed in her frightened mind: The monsters are brought up that way from infancy. And they never change. As Blade’s hand moved down her thigh, she clamped her legs together and shoved against his chest with all her might .

  “Blade, no!” she cried, her voice high-pitched and terrified. “Stop it! Stop it!” She pounded against him with her fists, not noticing in her frenzy that he’d ceased the minute she’d spoken.

  “Theodora, I’ve stopped,” he said, his words low and calm. He released her and drew back, a scowl on his rugged features. “Why the sudden terror? I wasn’t going to force you. I’m not a savage.”

  At his words she jerked her head as though he’d struck her across the face. In spite of herself she knew her thoughts were transparent in her eyes. She bit her lip and lowered her lids. Ashamed of what she’d thought, she looked away.

  But he knew.

  “I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “I … I was frightened.”

  “Of the brutal Indian,” he completed for her, his sarcasm as sharp-edged as his bowie knife.

  Still she kept her face averted. “No, no. You’ve been nothing but kind.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem.” Grabbing her wrist, he stood and pulled her up beside him. His jet-black eyes blazed with anger. “Maybe I should show you how rough a savage can really be. Then you’ll have someone to compare your genteel, blue-blooded fiance with. If you’re going to be frightened, I’ll give you something to be frightened of.”

  Theodora jerked on her arm, trying to break free of his hold. She glared at him with tears of rage and fear. “Go ahead,” she cried. “Act like the monster Fletcher always told me you were.”

  His jaw tightened and a muscle in his cheek twitched. In the moonlight, the rugged planes of his face were set in stone. Without a word, he released her hand. Theodora took a quick step back. She’d never seen anyone so boiling, God-awful mad. If he’d pulled his knife or picked up his rifle, she’d have swooned to the ground in a dead faint, certain he was going to murder her.

  Instead, he turned his back on her and walked toward the stream.

  She tried to call him back, to apologize for her heedlessness, but she choked on the words.

  He didn’t even look over his shoulder. His voice was terse.

  “Go to sleep, Theodora. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

  The next morning they were up before sunrise. At Blade’s curt instructions, Theodora fastened her hair in two long braids. She was clean from splashing in the icy brook the afternoon before, but her clothes were in tatters. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at her wardrobe, and then touched that tender appendage with a hesitant finger.

  “Ouch,” she muttered to herself. She lightly probed her sunburned arms with a fingertip.

  “Come here, Theodora.” Blade was standing ankle-deep in the cold stream. He’d shaved off his mustache. Water dripped from his black hair and glistened on the muscles of his arms and chest. His hacked-off breeches were damp against his wet legs, and she suspected he’d gone swimming stark naked while she was still sleeping. She envied him his ability to bathe completely when she had to settle for a sponge bath. More than that, she resented his hostile silence during their breakfast of cold turkey and water.

  “What do you want?” she snapped in irritation.

  “Theodora, come over here,” he repeated in the low voice of authority.

  She read the determination in his eyes. With a show of bravado she sauntered over to the creek’s edge. She hadn’t pulled on her boots yet, for they were in worse shape than her clothing and kept falling off when she walked. She stood in stocking feet and hesitated.

  “What is it?” she questioned suspiciously.

  He stood with his strong hands planted firmly on his lean hips. “Take off your stockings and get in this water.”

  Certain he’d lost his mind, she shook her head. “I’ll do no such thing!”

  With lightning speed he reached out and pulled her, ankle deep, into the stream. She gasped as her woolen socks soaked up the snow melt. He bent down, scooped up a handful of mud, and dropped it on top of her head.

  “What are you doing?” she screamed as she thrashed about. He held her effortlessly by one arm. Without a word he continued his work, dropping mud by the handfuls on her hair and bare arms. Then he took his muddy fingers and spread the muck across her face until her cheeks, forehead, chin, and nose were covered with it.

  “You’re crazy!” She squealed as each cold, gooey blob fell on her. “I just washed my hair yesterday!” With a doubled up fist, she took a wild swing with her free arm, hoping to knock the smug grin off his face, but he held her at arm’s length. “Stop it!” she screamed.

  Finished, he set her free.

  Her arms flew in frenzied circles as she tried to hit him. He chuckled maddeningly and dodged her blows with ease. Seeing the fruitlessness of her attempt, she changed tactics and reached down for a handful of mud. She flung it at point-blank range. It struck his broad chest with a thunk.

  She’d caught him by surprise. His black eyebrows rose as he regarded her in astonishment. Then he tossed his head and grinned in sudden admiration. She followed up with a second handful, but he jumped aside and whooped in mirth when a third only grazed his bicep. “You rat!” she hollered. “You low-down skunk! How dare you do this to me!” She stooped to gather more ammunition.

  He gave a shout of laughter and grabbed both her arms, swinging her around and holding her against his muddy chest. “Theodora, calm down,” he said, still laughing. “I’m trying to keep your sunburn from getting any worse.”

  “What about my hair? Do you think it’s going to blister too?” she cried in rage as she struggled against him.

  “That bright mop of yours would be visible for miles. If someone sees us from a distance, I want him to think we’re both Indians.” When she ceased her struggles, he released her and she turned to face him.

  What he said made sense. Partially mollified, she folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. She was covered with mud. It dripped down her braids and slid across her back. She could feel it on her upper lip when she spoke. “Well, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d go along with the
idea. I was afraid you’d think I was just trying to get even for last night.” His response was a calm, measured appeal for peace between them, but his lips twitched suspiciously.

  She frowned and watched the mire on his chest slowly slide across his flat belly to the edge of his trousers. She sniffed in indignation. “Well, if I’d scored my last volley, I might consider us even.”

  Blade flung his arms wide. “Here. Take your best shot. I’ll just stand here and you can have at me.” His carefree grin was dazzling.

  She fought a reluctant smile. She’d never felt more ridiculous. She looked down at the muddy bank, then raised her lids to catch the look of anticipation in his raven eyes.

  “That’s letting you off too easy,” she said with a rueful laugh. “I’ll wait and let you have it someday when you’re not expecting it.”

  Though his eyes still sparkled with mirth, his expression grew solemn. “And I’m sure someday you’ll do just that, Miss Gordon.”

  Chapter 16

  They were traveling in the Black Hills of Laramie, a grueling range of high, stony mountains named for the distant effect of their cover of dark red cedars and pines. Theodora spotted the phoebe and the sharptailed grouse. Blade pointed out the mountain bluebird, written of by Thomas Say in his journals, and she realized with renewed surprise how many interests she and the rugged captain had in common.

  Blade was an excellent tracker. Early that morning they came upon a trail of horses, and Theodora, behind Blade on War Shield, urged him to stop and take cover. “If it’s the hunting party,” she said in his ear, certain they were about to be attacked from all sides, “they could spring upon us without warning.”

  “It’s not the Gros Ventres,” he told her. “It’s only a small herd of wild mustangs.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Look at their sign.” He pointed to a single area of dung. “A wild herd always stops to relieve themselves in one spot. If it was a party of Indians, their horses would be kept in motion, and their droppings would be scattered along the trail. Also watch how the trail passes under the limbs of the trees, too low for a man on horseback.”

  They climbed ever higher on a plateau of grama grass mixed with mountain sage. But the terrain of gullies, knife-edges, sage, greasewood, and alkali, increasingly steep, was relieved by small, sweet creeks flowing among tall cottonwoods— if only one knew how to find them.

  And Blade had the knack of doing just that.

  “You know this land so well,” Theodora stated in wonder. “How can you possibly know there is water from so far away?”

  He smiled at her amazement. “There are many indications of water, Theodora, if you know what to look for. Deep green cottonwood or willow trees growing in depressions, water rushes, tall green grass. There’s the fresh tracks of animals all heading for the same location, or the flight of birds and waterfowl moving toward the same point.”

  They halted for a midday rest; she was already weary from the pace he’d set. A brook ran through the shaded bower, festooned with vines and filled with the sweet melody of bird song.

  He lifted her down and began to unsaddle War Shield. “Besides,” he added, “I’ve been in this area many times.”

  “Is it your people’s land?”

  “Not here. For hundreds of years no tribe has ever claimed or dominated it. It’s a crossroads, a no-man’s-land. Vast herds of buffalo bring many tribes to hunt. Snakes and Bannocks from the west, Utes from the southwest, Arapaho, Crows, Pawnees. Sometimes the Blackfoot and Gros Ventres,” he added with a grim smile. “Now the Sioux. And of course, my people. All the tribes raid one another indiscriminately, then arrange temporary prairie truces so they can trade—frequently the goods they’ve just stolen.”

  Theodora looked around her. It was a good year for traveling west. The snowpack in the high mountains was greater than usual, and the rivers were running high; the little stream in their glade was no exception, and Blade caught several catfish with a hook and string he unearthed from his saddlebag. He set the fish to bake on the coals of a small fire. They had few bones and would make a delicate and delicious meal.

  He allowed her to wash her hands before eating, but when she looked longingly at the crystal water bubbling over the smooth stones and then down at her mud-covered arms, he shook his head. “Don’t even think it,” he warned her.

  Humiliated, she avoided his eyes and wondered just how ridiculous she must look. It hadn’t been as bad riding behind him, which she’d insisted on doing that morning. Now, sitting across from him in the peaceful glade, she felt like a human mud pie. Covered in dried mud, her blouse gaping open over a smudged, tattered camisole, her skirt ripped almost to her waist and revealing a dirt-spattered and torn pantaloon leg, she delicately held the baked fish wrapped in a leaf and tried to ignore the uncomfortable scent and feel of herself. How he could keep from sniggering was beyond her. From his polite manner he might have been enjoying dejeuner with a sophisticated New York socialite. His sense of empathy and fair play helped her retain the few shreds of dignity left to her.

  When they were ready to leave, Blade mounted and reached down to help her up. They were close enough for him to inhale the aroma of her unique disguise.

  “Phew,” he said in a stage whisper. He shook his head and wrinkled his nose.

  Mortified, she looked into his eyes and saw the teasing glow alight in their sooty depths. She laughed out loud in spite of herself. “You’ve no one to blame but yourself,” she told him as she wrapped her dirt-caked arms around his waist with vengeful satisfaction. She purposefully rubbed her grimy cheek against his back. “Since it’s your idea, it’s only fair that you should share some of the glory.”

  “Valor of this kind should get me another promotion,” he declared as he pressed his heels to the stallion’s flanks, and they took off at a quick trot. “Not to mention a presidential commendation.”

  Only a few hours later Theodora saw the outline of a rider on the ridge above them. “Blade,” she said in a hushed voice over his broad shoulder, “look over there to our left.”

  “I see him. He’s been following us for more than an hour.” His words were quiet and unconcerned.

  “Is he Indian or white?” she questioned.

  “He’s one of my people.”

  She pressed her forehead against his spine. “Thank God!” Then a thought occurred to her. “Do you know him?”

  “I’m not sure. In the glare of the sun I can’t make out his features. He’s not certain about me either. He knows I’m Indian, but he probably can’t figure out what the heck I’m doing out here without any identifying feathers or paint—with a woman—and riding a white man’s horse to boot. He’ll be moving up for a closer look. When he does, I want you to keep your eyes down and say nothing.”

  The brave followed a ridge that ran at an angle to their path. As he came nearer, Blade halted and shouted something to him in Cheyenne. At his words the warrior galloped toward them at a dead run.

  Theodora hid her face behind Blade’s broad back, thankful his shoulders were so wide. Terrified, she waited for a hail of arrows to rain down upon them. She heard the brave pull his horse to a stop directly in front of them, and the two men spoke in quick, clipped phrases. Desperate to know if they’d encountered an enemy, she cautiously peeked over Blade’s shoulder. The expression on the newcomer’s face gave her the answer. He was a friend. He spoke to Blade earnestly and with animation, as though trying to catch up on many years of separation, and Blade was talking just as fast, the excitement in his voice unmistakable. Then the brave noticed her. For an instant, she could have sworn an expression of shock crossed the warrior’s face. But the next moment he looked back at Blade, his expression inscrutable.

  “Theodora, this is Black Wolf,” Blade said. “He’s a Fox Soldier. We were boys in the same village together. My tribe is camped a few miles ahead in a small valley, just as I hoped. He’ll escort us there.”

  Nervously, she smiled at th
e warrior in an attempt to convey her friendliness. She prayed he wouldn’t suspect her fear of him, but he’d already turned his horse and was riding before them across the high plateau.

  Black Wolf led them into a valley with tipis scattered across its base. As they drew within sight, several young men mounted their painted horses and raced out to meet them, calling to them as they came. The escorts rode beside the new arrivals, talking excitedly.

  The Cheyenne camp was pitched in a broad river bottom protected by stands of trees. The lodges stood in a great circle, its diameter more than a half mile across. Columns of smoke rose from cooking fires in the still afternoon. As they approached, Theodora could see groups of men sitting about in the shade of the lodges, whose skins had been raised to allow the warm breeze to blow through them. Some men smoked and talked; others worked at different tasks with bows, arrows, pipes, or whetstones. A few boys sat nearby, as though eagerly listening to their elders. About the camp groups of small children played, while their mothers worked over hides staked across the grass.

  One of the young bucks riding beside the visitors gave a whoop and raced ahead, calling to those in the camp, no doubt telling about their arrival. From the tipis older women came out to see who the visitors were, pointing and chattering with excitement.

  The newcomers rode directly into the village. Blade pulled to a halt before a large tipi, painted yellow and decorated with blue stars on each side and a large green crescent moon over the door.

  In the shade of the lodge sat two men, one with a pipestem he was fashioning in his wrinkled, leathered hands. Laying the stem of hard red stone carefully aside, he rose with astonishing grace for his age. He spoke directly to Blade, and Theodora marveled at the depth of welcome in his voice.

  Blade dismounted and clasped the elderly man’s forearm. They talked softly, urgently. The old warrior shook his head, as if in disbelief, then turned to the middle-aged man who’d been sitting beside him. The oldest man spoke with such pride that Theodora could easily understand the meaning the strange words conveyed. He was Blade’s grandfather. Tears sprang to her eyes at the poignant reunion, for that the two men loved each other was without question. A woman emerged from the lodge; she gasped at the sight of Blade and ran to him. They clasped each other’s arms in joy, each talking excitedly. She was tall and slim, slightly younger than Blade, with enormous brown eyes that sparkled with happiness. Her lustrous black hair was parted in the center and fell in two thick braids down her back. Turning, she looked up at Theodora. She spoke to Blade with a graceful gesture, as if to say, “Who is this guest you’ve brought to us?”