Stone Heart's Woman

by Velda Brotherton

  Two hundred eighty-four men, women, and children left the south country six moons ago. How many were left he would have no idea until the last of them still hiding out in the hills were brought in. That afternoon, he heard sporadic gunfire from beyond the bluffs. The soldiers were still out there, still shooting his people. How many days had passed since the outbreak and the ensuing battle he did not know. Eight, ten, twelve?

  He would ask A’den, if he saw her again. Thinking of her brought a dull sorrow to his heart. Why did he have to find a woman he could love when it was too late? And what a cruel joke it was a white woman who deserved all the things he could not give her.

  As it grew dark, he made his way cautiously toward her quarters. Though he felt guilty lying in a warm bed and eating hot food while his people suffered, he was drawn back to her.

  He told himself he returned to find a way to set them free, but he knew it was her beautiful eyes and warm, soft touch that called to him. And he was ashamed.

  He waited in the alleyway until some soldiers passed, then crept out and headed for her door. A man crossed the common diagonally from the direction of the mercantile, and he ducked into the shadows to watch.

  He appeared headed for A’den’s place. And surely he was. When she opened the door, lamplight showed him that the man was the trapper Meeker, and he hurried along to get there before she closed the door.

  He stepped inside on the heels of the bearded man but scarcely spoke before A’den was on him.

  “I thought you’d left. Oh, come on in. Look, Meeker is back, too. Isn’t this wonderful? There for a while I was afraid neither of you would return. And look, here you both are. I have food, food. Sit down, eat. You must both be starved.”

  She released him, steered them both to the table.

  “I could eat a buffaler,” Meeker said. “Never expected this kind of greeting.” He picked up a fork and dived into the steaming plate of food.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

  “Nearly didn’t,” he said past a mouthful of meat and beans.

  “I meant Stone Heart, but that’s okay.”

  Stone Heart hadn’t spoken at all, but the food smelled good and he began to eat, watching A’den as she danced around and babbled. She’d been afraid he wasn’t coming back, and he almost hadn’t. Still wondered if he should have.

  Why didn’t she go home where she belonged, so he could stop feeling so responsible for her? So damned drawn to her? Why did he keep coming back?

  Someone tapped on the door and all three froze.

  Gaze darting between Meeker and Stone Heart, she rubbed the palms of her hands down the front of her dress. Moved to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Marcus Young.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  With hands that trembled she slipped the latch and let the young reporter in.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For a moment Young stood just inside the door, huddled inside his coat. His cheeks glowed red from the cold. She smiled, invited him to remove his things. He took off his bowler and leather gloves and rubbed his hands together vigorously. Across the room, Meeker and Stone Heart paused in like positions, forks suspended above half-empty plates, astounded gazes pinned on the newcomer. The only difference between the two was Stone Heart appeared ready to fight or flee.

  She tried to reassure him. “He’s a friend. I invited him.”

  “I see you have a guest,” Young said when no one spoke.

  Turning from Stone Heart’s accusatory glare, she managed to reply. “Oh, do take off your coat, Mr. Young. This is the man I spoke to you about, Stone Heart, and this is a friend, Josiah Meeker. I’d forgotten he was coming. I do apologize, and hope you don’t mind. He’s been...uh, helping us.”

  “Gentlemen,” Young said. He shrugged out of his coat, allowed Aiden to take his things, which she laid on the end of the bed. “Please continue eating. I just finished myself. Good, wholesome food they serve out here. Puts meat on your bones.” He slapped his slightly rounded stomach with both hands. When neither man replied, he removed a pad and pencil from his waistcoat pocket.

  Caught between the challenging stares of the three men, Aiden felt like a referee in an Irish bare knuckle fight. A beat or two of silence was all she could endure.

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” she finally said. “You two finish your supper and Mr. Young and I will visit. He’s really come to speak to Stone Heart.”

  “Who did not plan to be here,” Stone Heart grumbled. He went back to his food, scowling occasionally in her direction.

  She offered Young the only other chair, a rocker near the bed, and perched on the edge of the mattress, hands folded primly on her knees.

  “I apologize for the accommodations, Mr. Young. I did not expect to be traveling to this place, so brought no furnishings with me.”

  Obviously, the reporter had been in worse situations, for he took this one in stride, opening the pad on his knees and poising the pencil above the white paper. “No bother. At least it’s warm. I’ll just get a bit of information about you while these gentlemen finish their meal, and then perhaps Mr. Stone Heart and I will talk, if he’s amenable.”

  “Not particularly,” Stone Heart grumbled, took another bite and glowered some more. His demeanor reminded her of the first day they’d met when she found him in the shelter, wild, unkempt, and ready to slit her throat. Only now he looked so tired, almost as if one more disappointment might break him.

  “I do believe I can assist with your cause, if you’ll permit it,” Young said. “But do finish your meal.”

  Aiden watched the two of them. Young showed just the right amount of deference, and she thought perhaps Stone Heart would come around. Meanwhile, she filled the reporter in on her reaction to seeing the badly treated Cheyenne herded into the fort like animals.

  “And how do you come to be here?” Young asked after making a great deal of slashes and loops on the paper.

  She leaned forward. How in the world could he read such scribbles?

  “Miss Connor?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Mr. Meeker and I were brought in by the soldiers after we got caught in a blizzard. They were out chasing the Cheyenne.”

  Young’s eyebrows climbed his smooth forehead, forming furrows there. “Ah, yes. Could I ask, what were you doing with...uh, with Mr. Meeker?”

  “Is this a part of your story?” she asked sharply.

  He peered at her from the tops of his eyes, cleared his throat. “No, of course not. We’ll skip that and go on.”

  “Very good.” She sat straighter.

  “What do you think should be done with these people?”

  “They should be allowed to return home.”

  “To...?”

  “Montana.”

  “Is it true that there are no facilities for them up there? That the United States government has made arrangements to house, clothe, and feed them down south in Indian Territory?”

  “I don’t know about any of that. I only know that the urge to go home is inherent in all of us. Would you like to be trapped here, even though the government fed you and housed you and clothed you? Only one thing, you couldn’t go back home? Ever. I think not.” Trapped here in much the same way she was, save for better accommodations. But that was another matter and one she didn’t wish to address as yet.

  “Fortunately, that isn’t a possibility I must consider. These people are savages living on land that the government wants. What else did they expect?”

  “I don’t know what they expected, Mr. Young. To live on the land of their ancestors, perhaps? To be left in peace, do you think? To be allowed to raise their children without seeing them butchered? Or worse, having to kill them to keep the brutal white man from getting his hands on them?”

  “Oh, dear. Surely that can’t be true. These soldiers are only carrying out orders. They wouldn’t.”

  Stone Heart lurched to his feet, kicked awa
y the chair in which he’d sat, and covered the distance between them in what appeared to be a gigantic leap, though she knew his feet must have touched the floor at least once. The reporter gazed up at him almost benignly. Didn’t so much as flinch. A slight smile tilted the corners of his mouth. Not at all like a man expecting to be scalped. Aiden was amazed at the young man’s affability in the face of such a frightening threat.

  “Are you ready to talk to me now, Mr. Stone Heart?” he asked in a soft voice. “Or do you wish my hair?”

  Stone Heart loomed over the seated man, hands fisted at his sides, eyes shooting fire. “Don’t call me ‘mister,’” he said. “That is a white man’s title.”

  “And I understand you are only half white?” Young replied and turned the page to a fresh sheet. “Tell me about your true heritage.”

  Amazingly, Stone Heart sank to the floor, and there, seated cross-legged, began to speak to the man he’d earlier appeared ready to kill. They talked for what seemed like hours. Aiden listened as if she hadn’t already heard the stories. Young filled page after page, and occasionally Stone Heart would jab a finger into the air to make a point. Young never wavered, his expression compassionate without being demeaning.

  At last he asked, “And what is it your people wish to ask of the president?”

  “They ask only to be released so they can join the others up north. If they are to die, and they are sure this is the case no matter where they go, they wish to do it on the land of their ancestors. They vow to die at their own hands, to the last man, woman, and child, if Wessells tries to send them back to Indian Territory. You can bet they will; many already have.”

  “And you as well? You chose this life, probably certain death, over the life of the son of a famous white man? Can you tell me why?”

  Stone Heart glanced at Aiden, then at Meeker, who had long ago finished his meal, but remained at the table, chair tilted back against the wall.

  Young’s gaze followed his, then settled on Stone Heart. He waited patiently for a reply, pencil poised.

  “When I was eleven, my father,” he spat the two words, then continued in a tight tone, “my father massacred the very people who became a part of his family when he lay with their women. He was young himself, but learned quickly how to destroy the red man.”

  “Sand Creek,” Young said.

  “No, that was another barbarian. Chivington. Custer cut his teeth at the battle of the Washita when he tried to do what Chivington couldn’t at Sand Creek. Destroy Black Kettle. Two years later he sent soldiers to tear me from the arms of my mother and her people.

  “We were called the Beautiful People by those same white men who cut us down. I was taken away and molded into a white man. By the time I returned, Little Wolf had taken all the Northern Cheyenne from the land of our cousins, the Southern Cheyenne, and began the trek north...to return to the land of our ancestors. I caught up with them, hoping to become a great warrior and thus make up for what my father had done. Soldiers pursued us, but we were determined. Some of us were captured and taken to Fort Robinson. Little Wolf managed to escape with a few followers. I hope they are waiting up north.

  “A few nights ago, I have lost track of how many, we broke out and tried once again to go home. We were pursued and attacked. General Crook sent many soldiers and Wessells has been like a rabid wolf in his pursuit. Morningstar, called Dull Knife, and a few others have thus far eluded capture since the breakout. If they haven’t frozen to death out there, they will soon join Little Wolf.

  “Somehow, someway, I intend to see that those they are dragging back here, for God knows what reason, are set free to join them.”

  Young nodded, finished scribbling, glanced up with eyes bright. “And you are willing to go with them, die if necessary, just to be free?”

  “Yes, that is true.” Stone Heart glanced at Aiden and she refused to look away. She wanted to plead with him, beg him not to go, but said nothing. It had all been said.

  “So you rejoined the Cheyenne because you were ashamed of being the son of Custer and you thought to die to atone?”

  “I have said it, I will say it again. If I must, I will die. But I could not help whose son I was. I was ashamed that he was such a coward, that he could not be trusted, that he slaughtered the very people he claimed to love.”

  “That he could not be your true father.”

  Eyes glimmering in the lamplight, Stone Heart studied the young man. “My true father is Morningstar. I will never call Long Hair father. He spilled his seed in my mother, but he thought nothing of the child he might sire. Because of the kind of man he is...was, I am glad he never called me son. I would rip out my own heart if he claimed me.”

  “If you could speak to our president about the predicament of your people, what would you say?”

  Stone Heart stared through the darkened window for some time. “I would ask only that he allow us to follow the path of Morningstar.”

  “Even though that probably means the death of your people?”

  “My people died when the white man came. It has taken them many moons to pass from the earth. I ask only that they be allowed to do so in peace.”

  Tears filled Aiden’s eyes and she gazed in wonder at the distantly serene countenance of Stone Heart.

  “And if they are released, you will go with them?”

  With that question, his eyes met hers again, held them for a long moment. Then he replied. “Yes. I must.”

  He might as well have struck her, she felt the blow of his words so solidly. After all they’d meant to each other, how could he so calmly speak of deserting her? Of fleeing to his own death without a second thought? He would abandon her just as Stephan had. Yet she had known it all along and shouldn’t be surprised.

  Young sat there a bit longer, but it was clear he had nothing more to ask. Finally he closed the pad, stuffed it and the pencil in his pocket and rose.

  “I’ll write this up, get it filed as soon as possible. I can’t guarantee it’ll do any good, but I think it might. There are already repercussions from the stories filed by other reporters out in the field who have seen the bloodshed and horror.” He reached out a hand to Stone Heart who took it solemnly. “It’s a great story. Thank you for sharing it with me. And I wish you the best. Thank you, Miss Connor. Mr. Meeker?”

  As the affable young man spoke he shrugged into his coat and gloves, took up his hat. “It’s been a real pleasure.”

  Long after the door closed behind Young, Aiden sat on the bed, feeling as alone as if there was no one else in the room. The very breath of life had been taken from her, leaving only a hollow shell filled with dismay and heartache. What a fool she was to let not only one man, but two, play with her to such an extent, then toss her aside as if she meant nothing. She had not only allowed it, she had practically begged for it. In the morning she would arrange to catch the next stage south to the train station where she could journey back to Saint Louis and her family.

  In the far corner, Meeker lowered the chair, stood. “Well, I might as well be on my way. The stuff you asked for is at the mercantile. Paid for by my pelts. I told them you’d pick it up later.” He fumbled on his hip, opened his possible bag. “And here’s the shears you wanted, ma’am. Hope that’s all you need, cause I’m pretty well busted. I kept enough supplies to do me a month or two so I can trap me some more animals, seein’ as how them pelts belonged to me. Man’s gotta live, you know.”

  He stood there a moment longer, fidgeting, then when neither of them replied, placed the shears on the edge of the table. Before going to the door he held out his hand to Stone Heart. “I wish you well, sir. It’s been good to know you.”

  “Thank you for what you have done,” Stone Heart said and released the hand.

  “Reckon I’ll be on my way.” He eyed Aiden for a moment, and she remembered her promise, the one she had never intended to keep. She stepped forward, stood on tiptoe and kissed him on one whiskered cheek. “Thank you.”

  Batting his
eyes, he touched the spot, nodded, and fled, closing the door hard.

  Aiden jerked at the solid thud and fussed with her hair a moment. A tear ran from one eye and she wiped it angrily, turning away so Stone Heart couldn’t see.

  He stood stiffly, head high, wishing there was something he could say to her, something he could do to explain his decision. But he knew there wasn’t. She would never understand. Never. He wasn’t sure he did, himself.

  When he was with her the world around him grew brighter, warmer, sweeter. Yet to turn his back on the suffering of his people was not possible. He felt that now, with even more conviction than before. This very moment he felt guilty being in the warm room while they were freezing out there in their dank prison.

  He wanted to purge the good food he’d eaten because they were hungry, tear the bedding into shreds because they slept on the frozen ground. He had no right to be with her, to love her, to accept her love in return. It had been foolish to even dream of such a thing.

  He tried to explain how he felt, but the words garbled as if spoken through a mouthful of mush, and he could only gaze upon her with despair. If only he could take her in his arms one last time, but in that lay the greatest danger to them both.

  “It’s my fault, I think,” she said.

  He shook his head, but still could not speak to be understood.

  “Yes. Yes, it is. I pick the wrong men. One is self-centered, prideful, and a pure lout, the other is passionate, blind to his own needs, prideful and...and...Oh, dammit.” She threw herself on the bed face down, shoulders shaking.

  Her sobs tore at his heart. He reached to touch her, but pulled away. He dare not or all would be lost. He must not give in to what he felt for this woman, could not betray all he held sacred. He would only grow to hate her and the life they might have. But, dear God how he wanted to stay with her. His body ached for the touch of her satiny skin, ached to breathe in her essence, to gaze upon her glorious ivory flesh, to draw life from her warm, moist lips.