Captivated (Cutter's Creek Book 18)

by Vivi Holt

  They wound their way through those rolling hills until just before sunset, when they happened on a long valley with a wide river that stretched out before them. Along the banks of that river rose a village of teepees, with smoke curling from open fires and the roofs of the teepees themselves. The conical structures dotted the sandy shoreline, just feet away from the water’s edge and nestled in amongst the spindly river trees that squatted and swayed in a lazy, uneven line.

  Beyond the tree line, the open prairies spread, wide and empty to the horizon. Perhaps they’d traveled all the way to Wyoming Territory? She remembered the landscape well from her own trip through it only weeks earlier. If that was the case, she knew there weren't any townships or army fortifications nearby, and it wasn’t likely she’d be rescued. At least not anytime soon. Though she hoped Charlotte, Harry and Camilla wouldn’t forget her. But what if they'd been killed as well? Perhaps the entire party had died at the hands of the men she was traveling with — she really had no way of knowing, since she’d been unable to see or comprehend anything that happened once the knife blade… she squeezed her eyes shut tight, and pushed the thought from her mind.

  And now they were coming to the village. Her abductors’ home. She could sense the excitement in the group, as smiles broke out on brown faces and men chattered easily amongst themselves. No longer cautious about the amount of noise they made. No longer keeping to the shadows, or riding in small groups. They rode side by side, pony’s necks long and slack with reins looping low to the ground. Eagerness pulsed through the group. Her heart skipped a beat and she chewed absently on her lower lip. She’d grown accustomed to riding with her captors, but what would happen now? This was undoubtedly their destination and her fate would become apparent soon enough. Her pulse quickened and she clenched the pony’s mane tightly in both hands.

  As they entered the village, the shouts of children and the barking of dozens of lanky wolf-like dogs alerted the occupants of their arrival. Maria was soon surrounded by curious onlookers, who tugged at her skirts, patted her legs and reached toward her hair, which had fallen loose around her shoulders on their journey. One woman managed to grab a handful of it and yanked hard. Maria cried out, but that only seemed to fuel their interest, and she was soon being shoved, hit and poked from all sides.

  Just as she felt tears threatening, the man riding with her lifted a hand to wave the others gently away, admonishing them with a few stern words. The crowd parted to allow them to continue on their way. She pressed the back of a sleeve to her eyes, and drew a deep breath. She must compose herself. She wouldn’t allow them to see how afraid she was, or gloat over how much they’d taken from her. They’d likely kill her, but she intended to face death with dignity, if she could. It was all she had left, and it was the one thing they couldn’t take from her.

  When they reached the center of the village, her guard helped her dismount and she found herself face to face with a man dressed in a beaded coat, buckskin britches and a large, impressive headdress made of colorful feathers, red beads and two small horns which jutted out on either side. His face was tinted a reddish-brown hue, no doubt from ochre or some such paint. His arms were crossed over his chest and his mouth turned down at the corners in displeasure. Other gray haired men flanked him on either side, and the villagers who’d followed them, encircled their group, jostling to find a place where they could see her. He lifted a hand, then let it drop to his side with a soft sigh. The people quieted down, as though waiting to hear what he had to say. He spoke then, words she couldn’t understand and seemed to await a response from her, his narrowed eyes trained on her face.

  “H-hello,” she finally stuttered. “Pleased to m-meet you.” She found herself curtsying awkwardly, wondering where that old-fashioned instinct had come from. Her cheeks burned and her heart thundered in her ears.

  “You. English?” He struggled to get the words out

  She nodded in astonishment. “Yes, English.”

  “Hmm. English drive us out. English kill our brothers.”

  A tremor ran through her and she felt as though her legs were about to give way. “I’m sorry.”

  “You. Go.” The man pointed to a woman on his left.

  The woman turned, then peered over her shoulder as if waiting for Maria. She followed the woman, who led her through the teepees with her main captor in silent pursuit. When the woman disappeared into a large teepee, Maria stopped and looked back at the man who’d followed them. He nodded in encouragement, as if entreating her to enter, then turned around and crossed his arms. It seemed he was to continue his watch over her. She swallowed hard and stepped inside.

  It was dark, and when her eyes adjusted to the dim light she could see dozens of bed mats lining the outer wall of the tent. The center was occupied by a fire which had burned low. The smoke wandered up and out a small opening at the apex of the tent. The woman she’d followed stoked the fire, pointed to a mat and Maria sat obediently. Then the woman left, the flap of the tent falling closed behind her.

  Maria lay down on the mat, tucking her legs up against her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Her wide eyes flitted over the empty mats, wondering who else would come in and sleep there, or if she would spend the night alone. She was relieved she hadn’t been killed yet, that she’d survived this long. Perhaps she’d survive longer still.

  As her eyes fluttered closed, the image of Fred’s final moments flashed across them again, as if burned into the backs of her eyelids. She opened them with a moan. Would she never rid her mind of the vision of her husband’s murder? Closing them once more, she purposefully steered her thoughts back to the brilliant greens of a favorite English field, the grays and browns of the cobblestone seaside village she’d visited every summer as a child, her mother’s shining face and ruddy cheeks …

  Her closed eyes filled with tears that pushed free and fell down her cheeks. And when sleep finally came, she dreamed of home.

  Even as the villagers filed into the teepee to take their places on the empty mats, she didn’t wake. Her exhaustion and relief at having made it this far had plunged her into the deepest of slumbers.

  Chapter Three

  Bodaway strode across the village and squatted at the river’s edge to wash his face. They’d just returned from their raid to the north, but already his feet ached to move on. He’d go hunting. They were running low on fresh meat, and it gave him the perfect opportunity to head out into the wide open plains for a few days. Alone.

  He picked up the bow and quiver of arrows he’d laid at his feet while he washed and slung each over one arm to rest comfortably against his back. He stood slowly and stretched his arms out high above his head with a yawn. The sun sent thin slivers of tepid yellow light shooting across the plains, setting the tops of the drying grasses aglow. His bare skin was covered in tiny goose pimples and he shivered once. He’d packed enough furs and skins to keep him warm, but when the weather allowed it he preferred the feel of the wind on his shoulders.

  The woman they’d brought back with them on the raid was sleeping in a nearby teepee. He’d only caught one glimpse of her since their return – Shiriki was watching over her and kept her in a part of the village far from Bodaway’s teepee. He was curious to see how she was faring. He’d been impressed by her fearlessness on the return to the camp, her head high and back straight as a pine where she sat in front of Shiriki, not bent forward in grief as she might have been. And when he caught her gaze, she hadn’t looked away, but returned his stare almost rebelliously.

  His mouth crinkled at one corner. He wasn’t certain what he’d imagined a white woman to be like, but it wasn’t that — wasn’t like her. He’d heard stories in other villages of how white woman would shriek and cry when a war party attacked, not like their own women folk — it was widely believed that honor was a thing unknown to them. But not this one — she had fire her eyes. And when the sun lit on her golden hair, it was as though it burned as well.

  He’d been against the rai
d from the start and had made it very clear to Anunkasan that they shouldn’t kill anyone, but the warrior had done it anyway. Bodaway remembered the last time the People had attacked and killed a white man – the Long Knives, the white army, showed up soon after and they’d had to run for their lives, hiding in hollows and caves. Further, by taking a woman hostage they were asking for trouble and he’d made sure to tell Anunkasan as much. But Anunkasan had just laughed, slapped him on the back and told him not to worry so much. He know what he was doing.

  Bodaway should have been in charge, as the son of the chief, but Anunkasan never seemed to let that bother him when he had a mind to do something. And Bodaway didn’t have the energy to fight him any longer. He sighed. And why should he lead the tribe? Just because his father was chief? He didn’t want to do it — didn’t want the responsibility. He’d rather spend his days on the prairies alone. And yet the people always looked to him for help, came to him with their troubles or to resolve a dispute between them. He did what they asked, but didn’t seek it out — leadership. It wasn’t in his nature to lead, and he couldn’t understand why his father didn’t see that. Anunkasan wanted to lead — he lived for it. That he would be a ruthless leader was clear enough to everyone. But who would challenge him? Bodaway certainly didn’t want to, though he knew deep down that it would probably come to that some day. As long as he could push it aside for now — he’d let that be a problem for another day.

  He ran a hand across his brow and walked back through the village to where the ponies were corralled. They grazed freely on the nutritious grasses, tails swishing and sides shivering. He stood by the rope fence and whistled. A pony with a large brown mark in the shape of the saddles the white men used on its back lifted its head, then trotted toward him with a soft whinny in greeting.

  He patted the horse’s nose gently and slipped a bridle into its mouth, securing it around the lower portion of the jaw. “Come on, Yarrow. I hope you’ve rested well, because we’re off to find us some pheasant, or perhaps even a mule deer if we’re lucky.” The horse nuzzled his hand, looking for a treat, and Bodaway laughed. “Greedy guts, I don’t have anything for you. And you’ve had plenty to eat.”

  He led the horse out of the corral and was about to mount up when he saw the white woman emerge from her teepee with Tomowa, one of the village women, by her side. Tomowa said something to her, and the woman smiled uncertainly. He frowned. She was a beautiful woman and he wondered how long it would be before one of the young bucks in the village claimed her. It certainly wouldn’t be him. He had no desire to take a mate again, even a woman like her. These days, solitude suited him just fine.

  He leaped onto Yarrow’s back in one fluid movement and the horse took off across the plain and away from the river and the village. Within moments the entire community lay hidden from view by a grassy rise. He smiled as he leaned low over the pony’s neck – how good it felt to be riding again. And this time he could do as he pleased, with no one else to bother him.

  ***

  Maria watched the tall man with the proud face ride away on his pinto pony. His eyes were cold, and had sent a shiver through her body when he’d looked at her. How she wished she could leap onto a pony’s back and disappear into the tall prairie grasses the way he’d just done. She wrapped her arms around her thin body, and bowed her head.

  The young woman beside her was chattering about something. She smiled at the woman and nodded, uncomprehending but glad at the moment for a friendly face. She wore a deerskin dress with simple beadwork, leggings and moccasins, and her hair fell in two long braids down either side of her round face. She was young and pretty, and seemed not to mind that Maria was a captive — treating her as though she was her friend from that first moment the man who seemed to be their chief had given her charge over Maria with one point of a bony finger.

  No one had come to her rescue since they’d arrived at the village, just as she’d feared. After that first meeting with the chief, she’d been left to her own devices for the most part with only the young woman to help her find her way around, feed her and take care of her. Her guard was always nearby, but each day he gave her a little more space to roam. Perhaps the chief would forget all about her and she’d be able to live quietly in the village until she found a chance to escape.

  “Tomowa, Tomowa,” the woman repeated over and over. She pointed to her own chest. “Tomowa.”

  “You’re Tomowa?”

  The woman inclined her head with a smile. “Tomowa.”

  Maria grinned. Finally she’d understood something. “I’m Maria. Maria.”

  “Maria,” replied the woman with a warm smile.

  “Yes, Maria.” Maria laughed and ran her hand across her eyes to hide the tears that had sprung into their corners.

  The woman lifted a hand and laid it on Maria’s arm. She murmured something, then walked away. Maria watched her go, but before long Tomowa stopped and indicated for her to follow. She smiled with relief and hurried after the woman.

  Chapter Four

  Maria sliced the turnip – at least that’s what it looked like – into small pieces and tossed them in a basket. Tomowa sat beside her and the two women worked quietly, the silence only interrupted by Tomowa’s sporadic efforts to teach Maria her language. She’d stop what she was doing, point at something and repeat the word until Maria copied it satisfactorily, then smile and resume her work.

  The man who’d stood a constant guard over Maria leaned against the trunk of a nearby fir tree, his eyes drifting closed until his chin hit his chest, then bobbing open again and glancing around to make sure his charge was still where he’d left her. Maria couldn’t help noticing that Tomowa’s cheeks flushed red every time she looked his way. She smiled and pointed to the young man. “Who is that? What’s his name?”

  Tomowa tipped her head to one side.

  “Name … what’s his name? My name is Maria – what’s his name?”

  “Ahhh …” She nodded. “Shiriki. You say ‘Shiriki’.”

  Maria’s brows arched in surprise. This might be something she could use to her advantage. She should find out how much of her own language Tomowa knew – perhaps she could tell Maria which way Cutter’s Creek was. “You speak English?”

  Tomowa nodded. “Little English.”

  “That’s wonderful,” gushed Maria. “I can’t tell you how good it is to hear my own language even if it is only a few words. I must know, which way is Cutter’s Creek? I want to go there, but I don’t know how.”

  Tomowa’s eyes narrowed, and she shook her head. “Little English.”

  Maria sighed and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t be discouraged. She had an ally in the village now and that was something to celebrate. She reached for another turnip.

  The tapping of hooves caught her attention.

  The man who’d ridden away on the prairie earlier that day trotted into view and toward the ponies grazing inside the rope fence. A young boy lazing in the grass nearby jumped to his feet, took the reins of the horse from the man and helped him unload a dear carcass that was slung across the pony’s hindquarters.

  Tomowa’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Bodaway.”

  “Excuse me?” Maria tore her gaze away from the man and focused on Tomowa’s round face.

  “Name – Bodaway.” She pointed at the man with a grin.

  Maria’s cheeks flushed with warmth. “Oh well, I …,” she stammered.

  Tomowa chuckled and nodded, then returned to grinding acorns in a clay pot. Another name learned. Another familiar face to add to her growing collection.

  Maria rubbed her eyes with her fingertips and sighed. The more of their language she learned, the easier her life in the village would be. Only she didn’t want to stay. Didn’t want it to be easy to blend into this life — the life of a captive in a foreign land, a foreign village, surrounded by people she hated and who hated her. She had to go home. Had to find a way to escape. How she longed to see her mother’s ruddy face, and hear he
r father’s deep voice tell her she should have listened to him, and not gone off on some half-cocked adventure with that pasty-faced accountant she’d insisted on marrying. She knew that’s what he’d tell her, with a gruff pat to her back, and a murmur about being glad she was back.

  When would she have a chance to leave this place? She was treated well enough, it was true, but she couldn’t stay here forever. She didn’t belong. And the idea that she’d fade into oblivion, never to see the civilized world again, never to skip through the cobblestone streets of an English village again, never to see home and embrace loved ones once more in this life – well, it was almost as bad as if she’d never existed. She sighed again, loudly this time, and set the turnip on the stone in front of her.

  A shadow fell across her and she glanced up in surprise to see Bodaway standing there, his eyes fixed on her with unnerving intensity. He wore a fur around his shoulders, and his hair fell in thick strands across his chiseled cheeks. He handed an entire deer hindquarter to Tomowa with a few gentle words. Tomowa responded in kind, with a quick nod of the head. Then he strode away to where a group of children played at wrestling.

  Maria watched the exchange with interest. He must be someone of importance in the tribe, the way that Tomowa spoke to him. She’d seen the young woman flirt with Shiriki and interact with other men on occasion, but she’d never shown that kind of deference to anyone else other than the chief.