by Jenna Kernan
Lucie glanced back at Mrs. Fetterer as the chill ran down her spine. It bore out her suspicions that he was more than just familiar with the Sioux. No self-respecting warrior would ever ride an altered horse; only full stallions or fertile mares were chosen. Eagle Dancer used to laugh at the cavalry for having to snip off a stallion’s bullocks to control them.
“Maybe he’s like them wild ponies—just needs civilizing, same as your students.”
Mrs. Fetterer sniffed. “That one? He’s wild as a wolf, rather. You’d have to be a fool to try to tame that one.”
Bloom smiled at Mrs. Fetterer. “Someone for everyone, they say.”
She shook her head ruefully. “They also say there’s an exception to every rule.”
Bloom peered out. “Wonder if he came across Carr? Man should have caught that boy by now.”
“That dreadful man,” said Mrs. Fetterer.
“He’s a good tracker. To him, runaways ain’t no different than coyotes. Never been gone this long, though. That boy must be a sly one.”
“The man should be fired. I’ve said so to Father Dumax.”
“What’d he say?”
“He dismissed my concerns.” Bloom snorted.
Lucie glanced out the window and was horrified to see the gun-running, murdering, wanted-for-hanging stranger was now heading her way. He stalked forward with his gaze set on the window. She fairly leaped backward and then had the irresistible urge to run out the back door, had there been one.
“Mrs. Fetterer, I’m feeling quite ill. Will you excuse me?”
“I’ll only be another minute.”
Lucie gritted her teeth, and then stepped behind the door as it swung open. Perhaps it was arrogant to think he came for her, but she had learned by hard experience to listen to the clenching of her belly and the warning shouted by her mind. He took two steps into the room. She slipped behind him, as agile as a weasel, and then darted out into the yard.
She heard the door slam but did not slow as she dashed across the yard.
“Lucie. Lucie West,” he called.
How did he know her name?
“I have to speak to you.”
Not if she could help it, he didn’t.
She had no doubt he could run her down, judging from the length of his legs. But she was prepared to yell her head off if he touched her. And unlike the last time, she was not unarmed. Now she carried the skinning knife that Eagle Dancer had given her.
He did not run after her and she did not turn about until she was safely in her room with the door bolted.
Sky Fox watched Lucie West run as if her skirts were on fire. She had a fine set of legs beneath all that material. He’d never before seen a white woman pick up her hem and bolt like a startled mare, but he’d seen the women of his tribe run like that, fleeing the endless cavalry raids. If she had been a mare, he’d know what to do. Certainly not shout and give chase—though he was sorely tempted to make an exception for her. But that was no way to gain her trust. And he needed that if he were to deliver the message entrusted to him.
He had made a bad start, as usual. Could she have recognized him after so many years? He had been just a boy of eleven then and their encounters had been brief, because he had refused to speak to her. Curious that she should now do the same thing to him.
He followed after her and reached the drilling yard in time to see her slam the door to the girls’ dormitory.
He didn’t think knocking would do any good. But she’d have to come out sometime and he’d be waiting.
She had been with the blacksmith’s wife, so he headed back to see about his girth buckles and Lucie.
The smithy glanced up at him as he entered. “You sell all them ponies?”
Sky nodded.
“Don’t know how you break them so quick. Like to see you work sometime.”
Sky ignored the request. “You know the new woman here?” he asked pointing at his chin.
The smithy paused the rhythmic hammering to look at Sky.
“I believe that’s the most you said to me in eleven months.” He moved the iron spike to the coals and pumped the bellows lever to stoke the fire. “Guess you mean Lucie West. She works with my wife, Dora. Powerful odd.” He raised one blackened finger to tap his temple, leaving another smudge on his dirty face. “You seen those marks? Indians did that to her. Something like that, well, let’s just say we make allowances, is all, on account of her tragic past.”
“How long she been here?”
“Come about two weeks back. She’s in charge of the younger girls. My wife says she’s defiant. Keeps talking to them in that babble whenever she thinks Dora is out of range. She ain’t helping ’em. How they gonna learn proper English that-away?”
“She married?”
The man chuckled. “Excuse me, brother, for laughing, but who would want their leavings? I mean she’d be right pretty if not for them fangs, I guess. But them savages had their way with her.” He shoved the spike in and out of the coals for emphasis. “Still, fangs or no, I guess they all look the same in the dark.” He grinned at Sky.
Sky balled his fists, and resisted the urge to use them. The words of his father floated into his mind like a falling leaf. A warrior does not strike in anger. “Saddle ready?”
“Sure is. That’d be fifty cents.”
Sky drew out two bits from his pocket and slapped them on the scarred wooden bench, then scooped up his saddle.
“What direction you come from?”
Sky Fox hesitated and then lied. “South.”
“Oh, well, I don’t suppose you came across Norm Carr, then. He’s our truant officer. His horse came back without him. They’re out searching now.”
Sky kept his face blank.
“Hope them savages aren’t up to no good. You know something about them Sioux, don’t you?” asked the smithy. “What terrible things do you reckon they done to her?”
Sky pressed his lips together. As far as he knew, her husband had shown her nothing but respect and kindness. It was certain that he still loved her even after all these years. No telling what lay in her heart. Not that he cared to know. Not his concern. He was just the messenger. Hopefully, only that.
“Thank you for the saddle.”
The man frowned, moved the glowing spike to the anvil and began hammering again.
Sky took Ceta to the trough and then saw him settled in a stall at the stable. Finally, he returned to the yard to watch the boys marching in lines like infantry. Perhaps the whites thought it fair that they teach the boys to walk after stealing all their horses. The children wore matching steel-gray uniforms and blank faces. Their dark hair had been bobbed as if they were all in mourning. Sky found that fitting, though he doubted their teachers understood the significance of giving their charges such haircuts. They had sheared his hair, too and he had been in mourning ever since.
Sky couldn’t save his people, but he tried to save a few of their horses.
The boys finished their useless drilling and strode off to the mess hall. The girls were already at afternoon lessons learning how to stand over stinking cauldrons of dirty laundry. Sky stood in the shade cast by the smithy’s shop, waiting for the girls to be dismissed. Then Lucie would escort her charges across the yard to the mess and he’d have another chance to speak to her. He was glad for the excuse because he wanted a second look.
She could not be as lovely as he first imagined. He remembered the girl she had been, hair in a wild tangle down her back, scabby knees and thin as a rail. Even then she had a full wide mouth and lovely vivid blue eyes that reminded him of deep water. Eagle Dancer had seen the promise of what was to be, but even he could not have pictured the blossom that would come from this bud.
If she hadn’t been such a beauty, he might have found his tongue when he’d first seen her, instead of staring, speechless as she passed. He’d just never expected her to take his breath away.
She won’t want an outcast like you—that’s certain.
Knowing that did not stop the stirrings of desire he felt for this woman. He folded his arms across his chest and waited in the shade for Lucie, but when he heard a familiar song, he crossed the dusty yard. It was a couples song, a dance for men and women together. Who would have the courage to sing such a song here?
He listened to the high sweet sound of the clear voice and followed.
Chapter Three
When Lucie had arrived at the Sage River School for Indians two weeks earlier, she discovered that the teaching position she had believed she had accepted was actually a situation as a dormitory matron with assistant teacher duties in the afternoons when the girls’ lessons included practical skills training. When she grasped what had happened, she had been tempted to fight for the position she desired, but that would have meant having to speak to the headmaster and now as always, she found her nerve fled at the thought of confrontation. So she swallowed her disappointment and settled for what they offered, mollifying herself with the notion that she could still be of service. But some small part of her wished she could be like her mother, defiant, foolish and brave. It was tiring to be so cautious but it kept her safe and that was most important.
So here she stayed in this isolated school some forty miles north of Moorehead, Minnesota, and the railroad that connected the western edge of the state to the rest of the world. She had not realized that Sage River would be so far from the town, though she was certain that suited the good people of Moorehead just fine. She was also distressed to learn that parents rarely visited the students. Lucie had been here two Saturdays already and seen no one, though she had supervised the writing of several letters, which Mrs. Fetterer also checked for penmanship before they were mailed.
She had admired the work of the priests from a distance and she agreed that reeducation was the only way to prevent extermination of the race. But on arrival Lucie found the theory and practice far removed. Now that she was here, the actual process of matriculation seemed, well, cruel.
Having once been a slave, Lucie now found herself cast in the unlikely role of slave-master and she liked this position little better than the former. Her mind accepted that the alternative to assimilation was extinction, but her heart, oh, yes, her heart whispered words of treason.
Lucie cautioned herself. She knew she must cease her rebelliousness or lose her position. She was a teacher, or she would be someday. It made no sense to jeopardize her place here, so why did she find it so difficult to obey the rules? She had made a bad start with the matrons and priests. But she would do better—must do better.
Today, Lucie had the dubious honor of assisting the lesson on how to properly wash laundry. The older girls were newly arrived and eyed the large cauldrons suspiciously.
One pointed. “They mean to cook us!”
The girls began to scream. Mrs. Fetterer shouted but to no avail.
Lucie raised her voice and called to them in Lakota. “It’s for washing the bedding!”
The girls stopped screaming. The ones that were running slowed to a stop and turned to her.
Mrs. Fetterer scowled. “Come back now, all of you.”
They did.
The matron turned to Lucie. “I’m reporting this.”
Lucie grimaced. How were they to communicate with the students if the girls did not speak English and she was not permitted to speak Lakota?
“They were afraid we meant to cook them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She tugged at her jacket and glanced about at the wide-eyed children, then cast her gaze on Lucie. Her eyes narrowed. “Continue the lesson.”
Without another word, she left them, chugging around the building and out of sight. Lucie stared after the woman, knowing she was heading for the headmaster’s quarters again.
Lucie bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Despite her efforts, Mrs. Fetterer and the other matrons would have nothing to do with her and spent much time whispering when she appeared. The women here were no different than the ones in California. Well, what of it? She had not come here for them.
Lucie stared out at the girls. They had been slow to accept her. But she still held high hopes. The lesson might be mundane, but learning to do laundry would help her charges to become useful in white society. She set them at their chores washing, wringing and hanging all the sheets. With eighty-six beds, the work was daunting.
Soon the muggy September afternoon conspired against them. The stifling air and steaming water made the task unbearable. The girls perspired in their new uniforms, their cheeks flushed and damp. The rules forbade them to roll up their sleeves or unbutton the collars of their dresses. Lucie looked out at the pink, sweating faces and felt her heart breaking.
Perhaps her compassion made her too soft on them, as Mrs. Fetterer had suggested on more than one occasion. ‘Discipline, dignity and diligence,’ her superior had said at every occasion. But those women did not understand the sorrow of being separated from one’s family, while being completely besieged by a strange culture and language. Her captivity had given her a deep empathy for her charges. Her compassion warred again with caution.
They looked like flowers wilting on the thirsty ground. The girls kept glancing at her as if for rescue. Something broke loose inside her.
She began to clap her hands in a syncopated beat, one loud beat and then three taps in a steady, even four-count. Again and again she pounded out the rhythm. The girls looked up and then quickly about to see what would happen. Lucie began to sing a round dance song. Some of her charges gasped. One placed a hand over her mouth. Tears sprang from the eyes of two of the older children. The younger ones laughed.
Her students began to smile. Heads bobbed as they swept wooden paddles round and round in the wash water. Lucie felt the first true connection to her students, bringing a glow of satisfaction that resonated in her voice.
The children at the wringers turned the handles, keeping time to the song Lucie sang. Some of the students began to whisper along. Singing was forbidden, except the hymns and the choral pieces they performed for important visitors. Feet began to tap and some moved from side to side, recalling the circle dances they had once joined.
The work became light as each girl moved to the beat Lucie provided. For a little while they were not in a strange place where adults tried to alter everything about them. They were back at the sacred fire, dancing with their people.
Lucie sang from a place deep within herself, until the last of the sheets had passed through the wringer and were hung on the line. The girls hurried to join in an odd ellipse around the cauldrons. They stood shoulder to shoulder, stepping in unison about the yard. Lucie glowed with pride at the smiling faces and nodding heads. Here, now, she had finally connected with them in a tangible way. She sang louder.
The back door to the school flew open and Father Batista stood in the entrance. His mouth hung open a moment and then snapped shut like a trap door. The yard fell silent. Heads bowed, except for Lucie’s. She straightened, rising to her full five feet even as her stomach flipped at the dread trickling through her.
“Miss West, what is the meaning of this!”
“I only thought a little music might…”
“Music?” he hissed.
Lucie knew she should apologize. Instead, she stood like the fool that she was, knowing in her heart that what she had done was right. She wanted to ask this man why her students must lose everything that made them who they were. But of course she said none of it. Instead she bowed her head, avoiding his eyes.
“What have you to say, Miss West?”
“I hear the slaves used to sing in the fields to forget their bondage.”
His astonishment was equal to her own. Had she really said that? She glanced up and noted the blood rushing to his face as he raised his voice.
“In the drill yard, all of you. Line up for inspection.”
The girls hurried into the building to the parade area and she knew she had not changed a thing, but only added to their misery.
“And you, Miss West. Flagrant disobedience. You will come to the headmaster’s office immediately.”
Batista waited beside her until all the girls had filed through the school and then motioned. Lucie drew a breath for courage and then preceded him. She stepped around the two-story school, now occupied with the boys at lessons, gleaming with freshly applied whitewash. Clearing the building, she stepped into the drill yard. Before her lay the church, in the central position and to the left the priest’s private quarters. Behind her and to her right lay the girls’ and boys’ dormitories, also clapboard. Finally, to her left stood the back of the carpentry and adjoining blacksmith’s shops and the stables, which faced the offices of the Bureau of Indian Affairs and their trading post and distribution warehouses for the school. It was a small enclave, but almost seemed a town, with houses beyond the warehouse for the craftsmen paid by the bureau.
Once outside again, she saw the horse trader. He rounded the building as she reached the yard and headed straight toward her.
“Lucie, hear my words,” he said in English.
This time it was Father Batista who stopped him. “She cannot speak to you now, my son.”
The man did not stop at the father’s words but kept advancing. Lucie looked away.
His next words came in perfect Lakota with no hint of accent. “Please, sister. It is important.”
She halted and stared at him.
“A captive, too?” she asked in Lakota.
He nodded once.
Batista clasped Lucie’s arm.
“The son of Ten Horses,” he said.
She gasped and stared into his cold blue eyes as her skin tingled in recognition. This fierce forbidding man was once a young boy, a captive of the Bitterroot people. She tried to reconcile her memory of that slim boy, adorned with only a loincloth, sitting astride a fine mare, with this menacing stranger. “I remember you.”
