“Go get them, then,” she whispered and moved away from the sleeping man.
“Do what?”
“Go get the damned pelts, Meeker.”
“Now, lookee here, missy.”
“And please stop calling me ‘missy.’ Go get the pelts, bring them back, take them to the mercantile and get some shears and some supplies for us to give to the Cheyenne.”
He stared at her, dark eyes slitted. “You want me to walk all night, haul them pelts back here so you can have a pair of shears and them blamed savages can have some supplies?”
“Meeker.”
“What good will supplies do without animals to haul them?”
“You get the supplies...sugar, flour, meal, whatever you can, and I’ll see to getting us animals.”
“Even if the pelts are still out there, and they well might not be if another trapper has come along, and say I do get the supplies, how on God’s green earth do you expect to get the animals?”
She wanted to throw something at the man who continued to be as logical as she should be. He was perfectly right, but she didn’t care.
“I’ll steal them,” she said curtly. “Now get going. You can be back by morning if you hurry.”
“And I reckon I’ll have to steal me a horse to haul them pelts back here.”
“You didn’t have a horse when we ran across you.”
Again he slitted that look at her. The one that told her she was winning the battle even though he didn’t much like it. He wasn’t half as tough as he liked to pretend.
“No, I reckon I didn’t. I was prepared to tote it all to the Red Cloud Agency so I’d have something to dicker for me some fresh animals. Now you’re asking me to give it all away so you and that’n can save a bunch of scruffy Injuns that’ll be dead by spring no matter what you do. Does that seem right?” He rocked to his toes and crammed his fur hat down on his head. Went right on talking without giving her a chance to reply.
“No, sir, it don’t seem right. But all the same, I reckon I’m gone, cause the onliest way I can put a stop to your haranguing is to go get them pelts. Then maybe you’ll give me some peace. I know now why I never took me no woman on the trail with me. I surely do. And without a horse, by God, I cain’t be back by morning, neither.”
The door slammed behind him, cutting off further conversation.
She sighed, undressed and crawled in bed with her brave Cheyenne warrior, curled along the curve of his warm body and drifted off to sleep.
Sometime in the night Stone Heart roused enough to feel her lying there against him. Though exhausted, he turned over and wrapped her in his arms, tucking her head against his chest. Despite the hunger in his belly and the weariness in every muscle, holding her felt better than anything else he could even imagine. Guilt dwelt in his soul, yet visions of the Cheyenne locked in their dreadful prison could not change how being with this woman made him feel. Alive and hopeful of a future.
He didn’t awaken again until dawn when the bugles sounded through the morning silence. Early sunlight slanted through panes of glass, crossed the floor and climbed over the foot of their bed. Fear shook him by the shoulders. Someone would see him. She lay between him and the small window, yet anybody could glance in and see them there together. How had this come to be? That he lay in the bed of this white woman when he had set out only to atone for his father’s sins and nothing more.
Outside soldiers moved to and fro, headed for their various duties following formation.
Snatching the blankets over their heads, he whispered urgently in her ear, “A’den, wake up.”
She squirmed against him, made a humming sound that sent moist, warm breath over his flesh. Her softness pressed so close, erupted waves of desire. He wanted to remain there with her forever, forget the cruel world that waited beyond this place. Yet he could not.
“What’s wrong?” She blinked at him, sending back his reflection in the green pools of her eyes.
“Someone will see us, through the window.”
“Uh huh. So stay under here with me.” She playfully tugged at his braid. “No one goes around looking in windows in a place like this. They won’t know who you are, under here like this with me.”
Another moment stolen with her. He longed to obey his body’s urge to explore all the secret places she had given to him alone. Looking deeply into her eyes, he cupped the side of her face.
“I missed you,” he told her.
“Even so, you’ll go away again. And I do understand. It has to be. But there’s nothing you can do now, not until dark.”
He sighed and pulled her close. “I don’t think I can do them any good at all. It’s so hopeless. They have no food, no water. They’re sick and exhausted, poorly dressed. There are children to think of. And they don’t want my help because I’m white. Told me to go away and leave them be.”
For one instant, hope filled her. They could go away together, forget all this and build themselves a life. Then she remembered the young Cheyenne mother carrying her dead child, and the tiny little girl with nowhere to go, the expression on her face one of numb acceptance. No child should have to feel like that. She should be running in the sunshine, playing, laughing, growing up, for God’s sake.
Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, but you have to do something, we have to. I could never live with myself if I could have done something and didn’t. We could never be happy. I want us to be together. Forever. We must do the one before we can search for our own happiness. We have to try to do what is right. We have to help them get free.”
He held her so close that for a moment she feared something might crack. She could scarcely breathe. “Ne mohotatse,” he whispered. “I love you.”
“Oh, I love you too. I didn’t set out to, but I surely do.”
For a long while they lay wrapped in the warmth of their love, oblivious to the outside world, as if, she thought, they savored this moment against a future that might well see them parting. This was a dangerous thing they planned, and it could mean his death, hers, or both. Even if the Cheyenne didn’t want his help, he was bound by honor to give it, and she could no more back away now than he could. And the soldiers would do everything they could to stop them.
“I think my idea, to get you in uniform where you can move about without arousing suspicion, will work if you’ll only give it a try.”
He glanced once more at the window that exposed them to anyone who cared to look, snugged deeper under the blankets. “Go on.”
“I sent Meeker after his pelts, you know, the ones he had in the shelter when the soldiers came. He can trade them for supplies for the Cheyenne. I have the uniform. When he returns we can cut your hair and get you outfitted. I’m afraid you’re going to have to figure out the rest. You know, get the soldiers accustomed to your presence while we make a plan? I told Meeker I’d steal some horses to carry the supplies and—”
“Whoa,” he said, horrified by her offer. “Stealing horses is a hanging offense. We’ll think of something else. I won’t have you put in that position.”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “There’s a reporter here, from a newspaper back east. I think we might be able to stir up some sympathy for the Cheyenne.”
“A reporter? I wondered why they were taking the wounded to the hospital. Now I know. They can’t let folks back home think they are barbarians out here. But I’ve an idea most people won’t care. As a race the white man is entirely self-centered. It explains their acceptance of the idea of manifest destiny.”
“That’s not true. Throughout history conquerors have treated the losing faction like animals with no feelings. It’s the same way in Europe. Winner take all. Most wars are fought for land and that translates to riches. The Indians did the same thing, I’m sure, before the white man ever came here.”
Grimly, he nodded. “I’m not sure I agree with you. But it doesn’t matter now. The Indians have to realize that the white man will never stop coming. All I want is to set these people f
ree so they can go home. After living white, I know the end is near for their way of life. I fear that eventually Crook is going to send these people down south, just like was ordered in the first place. They can’t let a poor little band of half-dead Cheyenne dictate terms of their imprisonment. But they’ll fight back, to the last dying one. General Crook is a fool. He’d do better to let them go home and put an end to this, but it’s gone too far and he’s embarrassed by the breakout.
“Go ahead and speak to the reporter. Maybe some stories about what’s really going on out here on the frontier could stir up some repercussions in Washington. But I still don’t think so.” He hugged her fiercely. “I would rather see you doing that than running around like some savage stealing horses.”
“And you’ll wear the uniform and let me cut your hair? You think that’s a good idea?”
He pretended to think it over for a moment. “It’s a very bad idea, but it could work. At least it’s the only plan we have at the moment. What are you going to do, hack it off with a saber?”
“No, Meeker is bringing shears.”
The remark silenced him. By God, she had this all figured out. He wanted to ask how she’d fallen back in with the truculent mountain man, but decided not to bother. It was bad enough that she was going to cut his hair and put him in a soldier’s uniform. Send him back into the white world he so detested. He really didn’t want to know too much about how she managed to convince Meeker to get him out of the prison.
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation.
Sitting up, Aiden called out. “Who is it?”
“Retha. Are you ready for breakfast?”
Though the woman was kind, she did manage to arrive at the most indelicate of moments.
Under the covers Stone Heart brushed fingers over her stomach, and she tried not to moan with pleasure. “I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. I’m not quite dressed.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Oh, yes. I’m feeling fine.”
He trailed his tongue along the laddering of her ribs and over her nipple.
She captured his hand, held it tightly, whispered, “Stop that.”
“What?” Retha asked.
“Nothing.”
He lay his cheek against her belly and cupped a hand over the mound of her sex. It was difficult to muffle her reaction. Going to breakfast became the very last thing in the world she wanted to do.
“You taste so good.”
“I have to get dressed.”
“Not yet,” he said, “Not yet.”
She gave herself to him wholly. She might have this man for only this day, or she might manage to keep him close a while longer. Whatever, she would accept it, for she knew that to have him for the brief moments they could steal was by far better than to never have known such an intensely beautiful love. She also knew that when she lost him, life would never be the same again.
It was a long time before she went to breakfast, leaving him there to wait for Meeker’s return. He promised he would not leave again, and she believed him because she had no choice.
Chapter Thirteen
Outside the door to her quarters, Aiden balanced a plate of food and a cup of coffee and tapped at the panels with one toe.
“Let me in.” She listened, tapped again. Her head throbbed with apprehension. Had he broken his promise to stay? Or worse, had they somehow found him and taken him back to the prison? She murmured his name against the door, and it swung open to reveal an empty room.
“Get in here,” his voice urged.
She let out a surprised “Oh” and moved quickly through the opening. Turned at the sound of the door closing. He stood there in his buckskins, an apologetic expression on his gaunt features.
Lifting his shoulders, he grabbed the fork lying in the plate of food. “I didn’t want anyone to see me. How did you manage this?” Without waiting for her explanations, he dug into a slab of fried corn meal mush slathered in molasses, picked up a chunk of beef steak with the other hand and bit off a huge bite.
The plate held out as bait, she led him away from the window. “Come, sit over here at the table where you can’t be seen.”
He followed, stuffing food in his mouth.
“Dear God, I’m sorry,” she said when he lowered himself into the chair without missing a bite. “How long has it been since you ate?”
Mouth full, he stared at her, shrugged, grabbed up a fat biscuit and bit into it.
He devoured everything on the plate, and she remained silent until he chewed and swallowed the last morsel and picked up the cup of coffee.
“It was all I could bring. I’m sorry.”
Digging at something caught in his tooth, he said, “Stop saying you’re sorry. There’s more than enough sorrow to go around. How did you manage to bring me that?”
She grinned slyly. “Told them my husband was feeling under the weather. Asked them if I could bring him some food to keep up his strength.”
“Your husband?” He gaped at her.
“Oh, I guess you don’t know about that, do you?”
“Well, I don’t know about any husband.”
She told him about pretending she and Meeker were married when the soldiers came because of her fear they’d think her a loose woman and want her to service them.
“And what did he think of that?”
“At the time, nothing. Well, actually he was knocked out and didn’t know about it till later. Then he got the idea that maybe he could collect on his husbandly rights, but I set him straight there, too. He’s really an old softy.”
Snorting, he finished the coffee and set down the cup. “So now how is it you’ve got him running around at your beck and call?”
She waited a moment, caught his gaze and said in all seriousness, “Hope, I guess.”
He laughed, a joyous sound that reminded her of brighter days, the sweetest of times. “Hope? That’s great. If only we all could exist on such a simple thing as that.”
Cupping the side of his face, she said, “Yes, if only.”
He covered her hand. “And what do you hope, A’den?”
“I think you know.” She leaned down and kissed him, tasting the coffee on his lips.
For a long moment, he held on to the kiss, but didn’t pursue it when she broke contact. “You need to go home,” he said. “That’s where you should be, not out here in this wilderness. It isn’t kind to women.”
“I know. But with all that’s happened, going home has become a childish dream. I’m a grown woman and need to make my own home now. That’s what I set out to do in the first place...with Stephan. I guess my initial reaction to being abandoned was to want to run home to my parents. But now...now...well, after this is all over, I’d like to make a home of my own somewhere. A comfortable house with a fireplace and a yard. A garden maybe. And children. I’d love children of my own. I’m not sure I can be my parents’ child anymore, with all that’s happened.”
Her eyes burned and she moved away from him, went to the window and stared at the churned up, dirty snow and the monotonous buildings stretching across the bleak plains. “Not here, though. Not here.”
If offered the chance to return to Saint Louis, she would go. Of that he was certain. It was just that she always tried to make the best of things. “Where would you like to be?” he asked softly, hope a broken thing.
“I don’t know. Someplace not quite so brutal. Someplace safe.”
“There is no such place.” His voice took on an edge, and she was sorry she’d let the conversation drift.
“They don’t want my help, you know? The Cheyenne. Their loathing for the white man is understandable. And they’ve decided I’m white. My being a son of Custer only adds to their dilemma. You can’t blame them, after all that has happened at the hands of the white man. Though being a half-breed is only a problem in the white world, my connection to Custer has always been a problem for them. The Cheyenne believe that when a man fathers a child with o
ne of their women he becomes family, one of them, and so it’s been so hard for them to watch these children of Custer growing up in their villages while he runs around massacring the people. They never understood, and now most hate him in spite of the family thing. So it follows they’d hate me.”
“How many children did he...I mean, with the Cheyenne women?” It wasn’t only the chill in the room that caused her to shiver, but she went to add wood to the stove anyway. Perhaps a warm fire would help drive the dread from her heart.
“We can’t know for sure. There is his son Yellow Swallow, who is nine, and we heard of a girl child named Yellow Tail, but have not seen her. I was born in 1857 from probably his earliest experience with a Cheyenne woman, when he was not much more than a boy himself, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and traveling home for the summers from West Point.” He rose, as if sitting in the chair did not suit him, stared beyond her with that vacant, savage look he sometimes had.
Mentally, she calculated the years. That made Stone Heart only twenty-two. My, and her getting ready to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. Perhaps she was too old for him. Gazing at his glorious physique, the golden tone of his skin that made him look like a white man who spent his days in the sun. The thick blond-streaked braid down his back. The nostalgic glimmer in his eyes. The age difference didn’t matter at all, for he had an ancient soul. It was a shock, that’s all, learning how young he was.
He continued the tale of his father. “One day, when I was perhaps thirteen summers, he returned to my mother’s village. He had become a soldier, and he took me from her. Sent me east to live with some white people who could have no children.”
“And they raised you?”
“Yes. They tried to bring me up in his image. Sent me to West Point as a white boy. Warned me many times that I must pretend to be white if I were to get along in their world.” He grabbed a fistful of his hair. “Because of this I was believed. Many Cheyenne have mixed with the white, our skin is not so dark. Like adding cream to coffee. Our hair is often lighter. But this...the others have the same color hair, as if he left a brand to mock their heritage.”
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