Chase the Lightning

by Madeline Baker

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’ll die if you don’t kiss me.”

  She didn’t have to ask him twice. Lowering his head, he claimed her lips and entrenched himself a little deeper in her heart.

  * * * * *

  Later, back at the wickiup, they sat outside on a buffalo robe and watched the sun set. Amanda rested her head against Trey’s shoulder. It had been a wonderful day, she thought, a day filled with love and laughter.

  “Still happy?” Trey asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  He squeezed her hand, wondering how long she would be content to live here, among his people, how long it would be before she began to miss her own home, her own time, all those near magical appliances she used so easily. Life was not easy among the People. They had none of the modern conveniences she was accustomed to having. To tell the truth, there were things in her time that he missed, like hot running water and electric lights. He had not seen much television, but he had enjoyed what he had seen and would like to have seen more. Riding in her car had been exciting, the speed unlike anything he had ever known. He would have liked a chance to learn how to drive it himself, to be in control of that much power. And the grocery store. So much food in one place. Food that was ready to be eaten. Ready-made bread. Meat in tidy little packages. No hunting, no skinning, no curing, just pick it off a shelf and cook it. And if you didn’t want to cook, well, you could buy pre-made dinners that just had to be warmed up. If he hadn’t seen it, he never would have believed such things were possible.

  He drew Amanda into his arms and held her close, suddenly afraid that whatever magic had brought them together would end.

  * * * * *

  It was a week she would never forget. Days of sweet loving, of falling deeper in love with the man she had married. She learned about his childhood, his years of living with the Apache. She told him of trips to her grandmother’s farm, of the time she had tried to ride an old milk cow and fallen in a mud puddle, of going trick or treating on Halloween.

  They took long walks, swam in the river, watched the sun set, went horseback riding. It was a week of being pampered as Yellow Calf Woman brought them food and wood each day, careful to do it when they were away from the lodge so that, for seven days, they saw no one else.

  All too soon, it was time to return to the canyon.

  Amanda couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret as they dismantled the wickiup.

  “Can we come back here some time?” she asked, and realized that, for the past week, she’d given no thought to returning to her own time. “Maybe on our anniversary?”

  Trey looked at her, and she knew what he was thinking, knew he was wondering if she would still be there in a year’s time.

  “Sure,” he said quietly.

  Silence stretched between them as they packed their few belongings.

  “Trey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t want to leave you. Ever. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Even if it means staying here?”

  “Even if it means staying here.”

  “Amanda!” He drew her into his arms and held her tight. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t.”

  He buried his face in the wealth of her hair, one hand stroking her back. “Every day when I wake up, I’m afraid you’ll be gone. Every time you’re out of my sight…”

  “Oh, Trey, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. We tried to go back and nothing happened. I think maybe I was born in the wrong time, and this is Fate’s way of putting things right.”

  He drew back a little and grinned at her. “Is that what you think?”

  “Well, it’s as good an explanation as any.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Come on, let’s go.”

  * * * * *

  Walker on the Wind was sitting outside his lodge when his grandson and the white woman returned. He stood up, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully as he glanced from one to the other. He watched as Long Walker lifted his bride from her horse. And then he smiled. Enju. It was good between them.

  He nodded at them both, his heart light as he watched the young couple duck into their lodge.

  “So,” Yellow Calf Woman said, emerging from their wickiup. “They have returned.”

  “Yes.”

  Yellow Calf Woman moved up beside him, her gnarled hand resting on his arm. “Do you remember our honeymoon, old man?”

  He looked down at her, a twinkle in his eyes. “I am not so old that I have forgotten those days,” he replied. “Nor have I forgotten how beautiful you were the day I took you as my wife.”

  “It was the best of days,” she recalled with a quiet smile. “All the women envied me as we rode away from the village.”

  Walker on the Wind placed his hand over hers. “We have shared many good years, old woman. I hope our grandson will be as fortunate.”

  “What have you seen?” Yellow Calf Woman asked sharply. “You were gone long yesterday, and silent when you came home.”

  Walker on the Wind lowered himself slowly to the ground, his expression pensive. He had gone to his secret cave early in the morning. Clad in his ceremonial shirt, a pair of eagle feathers tied into his hair, he had sprinkled hoddentin and white sage into the fire. He had purified himself in the smoke, then stared into the flames. He had repeated the ritual several times. Always, it was the same.

  “I am not yet certain what the vision meant.”

  “It troubles you?”

  “Only because I do not yet understand what it means.” His gaze strayed to the stallion. “I saw Relámpago ride into a dark mist. He was carrying Long Walker and the white woman when he disappeared into the mist. When he returned, Long Walker and the woman were gone.”

  Yellow Calf Woman’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t think…?”

  “I do not know,” he said, his voice troubled. “I do not know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Amanda sat in the sun in front of her wickiup, concentrating on sewing the top to the sole of the moccasin she was trying to make for Trey. Sewing had never been her strong suit, and her fingers were sore from pushing the needle in and out of the thick rawhide. A little light mending was about all she had ever done. If something was in need of repair, she either took it to a seamstress or tossed it out. One thing she had certainly never expected to do was make moccasins. Yellow Calf Woman had showed her how to punch holes in the buckskin with a fine-pointed awl; she used sinew for thread.

  She had learned that Apache moccasins turned up at the toe to protect the wearer’s foot from being pierced by cactus thorns; the long legging was to keep the sand out and to protect against snake bites. She had also learned that winter moccasins were often made of buffalo or bear hides, and sewn with the fur inside for added warmth.

  She had learned a lot in the last few weeks. She was growing more adept at cooking over an open fire; she participated when the women tanned hides, which was a long, rather disgusting task, in Amanda’s opinion. She was able to understand more and more of the language. The women had accepted her and now made her feel welcome among them, smiling at her when she met them at the river to draw water, or when she was gathering wood for the fire. Well, all except one woman. Her name was Red Shawl, and she looked at Amanda as if she hated her. And maybe she did, Amanda thought. After all, she was a white woman, the enemy. Fortunately, she didn’t see Red Shawl very often.

  Amanda put the moccasin aside, turning this way and that to stretch her back and shoulders. Trey had left the canyon to go hunting with a half-dozen other men. It was the first time since their marriage that they had been apart for more than a few minutes, and she missed him. Was he missing her? And what would she do if he came back with a deer or something? She hadn’t learned how to skin game yet, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to learn. She had watched Yellow Calf Woman skin a deer, and the
n soften the hide. It was a long, drawn-out process. First the hide was soaked in water, then it was rubbed with lye made of ashes to loosen the hair, then the hair was scraped from the hide. When the hide was clean, it was washed and wrung out, then stretched out on a wooden frame to dry. The next part involved rubbing a paste made of deer brains into the hide. When this was done, the hide was removed from the frame and was soaked, twisted, wrung out, and then soaked, twisted and wrung out again and again until it was soft and pliable. Next, the skin was smoked. This was done with great care until the hide was the desired color, either yellow, tan, or brown.

  It was much easier to make rawhide. A green hide was soaked in water, the fleshy parts, fat and hair were removed, the hide was scraped until it was the desired thickness, and then the skin was stretched on a frame and left to dry. Rawhide was used for the soles of moccasins, and for making quivers and parfleches.

  It was late afternoon when she finished sewing both moccasins. Rising, she placed them inside the door of the wickiup, thinking how surprised Trey would be when she gave them to him. She was pretty sure they would fit, since Yellow Calf Running had given her the pattern. The only other thing she had ever made was an apron in Homemaking Class in high school, and that had been a disaster. At least the moccasins looked like moccasins!

  She glanced toward the canyon entrance, wondering how long Trey would be gone. She couldn’t believe how much she missed him. He was never far from her thoughts. She walked through the camp toward the river, nodding at the women she passed, smiling at a group of little boys who were shooting toy arrows at a rabbit skin.

  Leaving the camp behind, she found a quiet place in a bend of the river where she could bathe. The water was cool, but not yet cold. After glancing around to make sure she was alone, she stripped off her dress and moccasins and stepped into the water.

  Submerged, she gazed up at the darkening sky and wondered what was happening back home. If time was moving along there at the same pace as here, her absence would have long since been reported, and whatever search had been mounted would have been unsuccessful. By now, her parents might well have given her up for dead, and be in mourning. It was not a pleasant thing to contemplate. She wished for the thousandth time there was some way to get in touch with them to let them know she was all right.

  Her mail would be piling up, her bills overdue. No doubt the gas and electricity and water would eventually be shut off for lack of payment. She was pretty sure Rob or her mom would look after the house, or what was left of it, if those ruffians hadn’t trashed it. She had a vague notion that you had to be missing for seven years before you were declared legally dead. Uncle Joe's inheritance would be piling up interest, and the various financial institutions would look after it automatically until someone stepped in. She had named her mother beneficiary.

  She blew out a long sigh. There was no sense worrying about any of it. There was nothing she could do from here. And for now, she was happy to be here.

  She was wading toward the shore when there was a faint rustling in the underbrush along the bank. She went suddenly still. Her heart seemed to stop, then leap into her throat when she heard it again. There was something sinister about the sound. She told herself it was just a squirrel or a rabbit, a bird perhaps, but she didn’t believe it for a minute. Hardly daring to breathe, she crossed her arms over her breasts and darted a glance at her clothes, wondering if she should get out of the water, grab her things, and make a run for it. Of course, she was going to feel awfully silly if it was just an animal of some kind. Unless it was a bear…

  That thought spurred her forward. Forgetting about her clothes, she plunged back into the water and scrambled toward the far shore, her heart pounding like a drum.

  She screamed when a hand closed around her ankle. Panicked, she began to struggle against her unseen assailant.

  “Amanda! Amanda, it’s me!”

  “Trey!” She turned in his arms and punched him on the shoulder, as hard as she could. “What’s the matter with you? You scared me to death!”

  “I just wanted to surprise you.”

  “Well, you did!” she said, and sagged against him, her knees weak with relief. “I thought you were a bear.”

  “What are you doing down here alone?”

  “Bathing. What does it look like?”

  “Next time, ask Yellow Calf Woman to come with you. You shouldn’t leave camp by yourself.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if I had been a bear?”

  “There aren’t any bears in the canyon,” she said. Why hadn’t she thought of that earlier?

  He wrapped his arms around her. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  She smiled up at him, touched by his concern, by the love she read in his eyes.

  He slapped her lightly on the rump. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

  “Work?” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then licked a drop of water from his neck. “Now?”

  “Now. I’ve got a deer that needs skinning.”

  She looked at him, pouting. “You’d rather skin a smelly old deer than spend time with me?”

  He grinned at her. “We’ll be together. You need to learn how to skin game.”

  She made a face at him, then thrust her hips against his in a slow, suggestive grind. “That’s not the kind of together I had in mind.”

  “Sweetheart…”

  She looked up at him. “Yes, love?” she asked innocently.

  With a wry smile, he lifted her into his arms. “The deer can wait,” he said, and carried her out of the water.

  * * * * *

  Amanda shook her head, her expression bleak. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Of course you can, sweetheart.”

  “Well, I don’t think I want to.”

  “Come on, Amanda, it’s not that bad.”

  “Then you do it.”

  Trey sat back on his haunches and grinned at her. “It can’t be any worse than digging a bullet out of my back.”

  “Wanna bet? If I’d had to skin you to keep you alive, you’d be dead now.”

  He laughed out loud. “You’re something, you know that?”

  “Trey, can’t you skin the deer?” she asked sweetly.

  “I killed it. You skin it.”

  “But…”

  “Skinning is women’s work.”

  “Really? And I suppose it was a man who decided it was women’s work?”

  From what she had observed in the past few weeks, it seemed everything but hunting and gambling was women's work. Women did the cooking, the sewing, the washing, the mending. They gathered the wood and the water. They looked after the children. They tanned hides, made baskets, gathered whatever roots and fruits were in season.

  “And what is men’s work?” she challenged. “You sit around and smoke and gamble and occasionally go hunting.”

  Trey shook his head. “I didn’t realize how stubborn you were.”

  “I’m not stubborn.”

  “Fainthearted?”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “I am not!”

  He guessed he couldn’t blame her lack of enthusiasm. She had never been hunting, had probably never been hungry for more than an hour or two at most in her whole life. In her time, meat came in neat little packages, all the dirty work done by someone else.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll skin it and butcher it. But I draw the line at cookin’.”

  She hugged him tight, her eyes shining with happiness. “Thank you!”

  He knew he’d be in for some ribbing from the warriors before he was through. He’d just started butchering when a couple of men he knew passed by and stopped to watch.

  “Long Walker does this work as if born to it,” one of them remarked.

  Trey ignored them and proceeded with his work. The next time he looked up, there were half a dozen men lounging nearby, amusement in their eyes. A game of chance was interrupted as the players came to see
the novelty. He was drawing quite a crowd. Gritting his teeth, he kept working.

  Then the lounging warriors parted silently, and Amanda stood there. “What’s going on?” she asked, glancing at the men gathered around.

  “It seems I’m the entertainment for the day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He waved a hand in the direction of the warriors. “I mean, I’m doing your job, and they find it damned amusing.”

  “Oh.” A tide of red washed into her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Trey.”

  “Come here and sit beside me.”

  She did as he asked without question. He spoke to the crowd in Apache, and then proceeded to explain to her what he was doing. She felt her stomach churn and it took all her will power to make herself watch him lay out each piece of butchered venison on the skin side of the hide as he sectioned the meat. His hands were slick and red with blood. It was a messy task, one she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to manage.

  Gradually, the crowd grew bored and restless and drifted away.

  “I’m sorry,” Amanda said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “It’s all right.” He looked at her, grinning roguishly. “I’m sure I’ll be able to think of a way for you to make it up to me.” His tone softened, grew warm and husky. “Later. Tonight.”

  * * * * *

  Unbelievably, a month went by. Looking at her reflection in a quiet pool, Amanda hardly recognized herself. Her face, neck and arms were a golden brown; she wore her hair in braids to keep it out of her face. She could skin a rabbit and quarter a deer without getting sick to her stomach, though it was a task she would never enjoy. She was growing more fluent in the language, more understanding of Apache ways. They were a proud people, honest and loyal to their own, merciless to their enemies.

  Sometimes, at night, she sat with Trey, listening to Walker on the Wind tell stories of the old days, of brave warriors and warrior women, of battles won, and lost. She was particularly impressed with the story of the warrior woman, Rides Two Paths.

  Rides Two Paths had been known as Flower in the Rain when she was a child. She had started life as any other Apache girl, but as she reached the age when boys began to go with their fathers and grandfathers, learning to hunt and track, she asked her father, Tall Elk, for a bow and arrows. Her father, who had no sons, was pleased, but her mother was not. In spite of his wife’s objections, Tall Elk did as Flower in the Rain asked. He taught her to hunt and to track and when she proved to be capable, he allowed her to go hunting with him and several other warriors. It was while they were hunting that a band of Comanche attacked them. During the battle, her father’s horse was killed and her father was wounded. It was then that Flower in the Rain showed her warrior heart by riding back to rescue her father. Seeing her brave deed, the other Apaches renewed the fight, killing all the Comanches who had attacked them. When Flower in the Rain’s father recovered, he sang of his daughter’s bravery. He gave her an eagle feather to wear in her hair, and a new name. From that time forward, she was known as Rides Two Paths, and allowed to ride the war path with the men. Her fame as a fighter grew and, upon her death, she became a legend among her people.