by Jenna Kernan
“Your bride is ready, Brother.”
Silence followed Shadow’s pronouncement. White women did not marry Indians, even if the man was a warrior and well respected by his people, even if he was kind to her and held her in high regard. Her mother would not understand. No one would. She would be dirty, ruined. There was no greater shame for her. Her heart nearly stopped as she realized there was one greater.
What if she had his child?
“Where is the lodge?” asked Eagle Dancer, his voice eager.
Shadow pointed at a nearby teepee. It stood with taut sides and newly cut lodge poles. No soot darkened the freshly tanned hide at the peak of the structure and no paintings ringed the exterior.
A great grin split Eagle Dancer’s face, making him look younger. He nodded his approval, crossed the path and circled the structure. Rounding the front, he ducked inside. Lucie waited, frozen to the earth beside his war pony, as the long tail swished rhythmically back and forth across her stomach.
Lucie pressed her hands to her face to stifle a cry. Shadow gave a mirthless laugh.
“Why are you whining like a dog in heat? Are you so anxious for my brother’s lance?”
Lucie straightened, feeling her face burn in shame, but did not trust herself to speak. The lump in her throat seemed to choke her. How she longed for her mother.
“You go to him this night, little one. No more tricks. No more delays. From now on you can eat his food, assuming you know how to cook it.”
Lucie managed to nod as a hot tear splashed down her cheek.
“He is a good man with a big heart and a gentle hand. My mother is right—you do not deserve him.” Shadow turned to scowl at Lucie. Her eyes narrowed as she spied the tears. “If you weep before him, I will see you pay.”
“There is sand in my eye,” Lucie lied.
“Then wash at the river. Quickly, before my brother sees this dishonor.”
Lucie needed no urging to go. The river was one of the few places where she could escape Shadow and Yellow Bird. She worked her hair into two short braids that only brushed her shoulders, tying the ends with a long pliant strand of river grass. She did not have long to enjoy her privacy. Eagle Dancer arrived moments later, finding her on her hands and knees washing her face.
“Come now,” he ordered.
His serious expression raised alarm bells in Lucie, who wondered whether Shadow had told him she wept.
In her time here, Lucie had witnessed three funerals and two wedding ceremonies. The weddings were short with their own version of vows. God, of course, was absent, as these people still lived in ignorance of His great glory.
Lucie rose and only then discovered that her knees were clacking together. She wobbled along beside her groom, feeling her stomach rolling the dried buffalo meat she’d had for breakfast. She felt she should gather flowers, at least, and was sorry she had no fine dress or veil. What would her mother say about this man who was to be her husband?
She cast a glance at him and noted that he stared straight ahead as they made their way to the village. His profile showed the hawkish nose and square chin. She did not find him handsome, but neither was he hard on the eye. His wide bare chest fascinated her, as did the muscles of his shoulders and back. He had shown her kindness, but not enough to let her go. Although he never mistreated her, he often left her with his mother.
Once she was a wife, would Yellow Bird continue to belittle and beat her? She did not wish to marry, but they left her no choice. And if she must wed, she hoped her status as Eagle Dancer’s wife would afford her some peace.
She had much to learn, although gathering sticks and water, doing every foul task his mother could devise and watching Shadow’s baby had prepared her somewhat to keep house like an Indian.
“I’m not a very good cook,” she said.
He gazed down at her and smiled. “You will have much practice, for I will keep your cooking pot full.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sarah arrived first at the stables. The Indian woman appeared as Sarah saddled Freckles. She glanced about for someone to introduce her and then in the hopes that the woman would glance her way, but neither happened, so she advanced cautiously.
She studied the stranger’s face, deciding the woman was her junior by several years. Her black braided hair showed no gray and her smooth skin glowed with health. Her figure was hidden beneath a white Hudson Bay blanket. The bold yellow, green, red and black stripes crossed her narrow shoulders and back. The woman retrieved a mule from the stables and shed her blanket to tie a pack saddle in place. Sarah moved closer, waiting for the woman to notice her, but she continued her work, lifting load upon load onto the mule as Sarah hovered nearby.
“Are you Mr. Roubideaux’s wife?” asked Sarah.
The woman turned, met Sarah’s gaze with dark, serious eyes and nodded.
“I’m Sarah West. I’m riding along with you.”
The woman said nothing to this.
Thomas had spoken to the trader about his change of heart, so she was expected this morning, though she wondered if Roubideaux had shared this news with his wife.
“Do you understand me?”
Another nod.
“What is your name?”
“I am called Water Blossom.”
Sarah offered her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
The woman stared at Sarah’s hand and then reluctantly touched her fingers to Sarah’s palm.
“You are searching for your girl.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The serious eyes gave nothing away as she nodded again. Then she pointed to the mule. “I have work.”
“Of course. May I help you?”
Water Blossom’s brows lifted at her offer. Then she looked over her shoulder, as if afraid to be caught committing some crime. Finally she shook her head. “I do.”
“Very well.” Sarah stepped back.
Water Blossom had two mules loaded and had readied both saddle horses before Roubideaux arrived.
Thomas appeared next, unshaven and bleary eyed. “Ready?”
In answer she turned Freckles to the mounting block. They headed out of the gate with the trader in the lead, followed by Thomas, Sarah and finally Water Blossom leading the mules. All that day, she saw no game, no cavalry and no Indians.
At dusk, Roubideaux called a halt and Water Blossom set the camp, moving silent as a shadow in the twilight. She again refused Sarah’s offer to help, leaving Sarah nothing to do but feed and water Freckles, who seemed happy with that arrangement.
Sarah held her gelding’s halter as he munched his grain and molasses from the sack. She wore her new coat and found it warm even against the chilly wind that numbed her ears and nose. The days never warmed up enough to suit Sarah now. Thomas staked the horses’leads and Sarah made her way to the fire. As she lifted her hands to feel the heat of the flame, she wondered if Lucie had the same luxury.
On the third afternoon of traveling, they reached the place that Roubideaux called his trading post. Sarah did not know what she expected, but certainly not a squatty little sod house and lopsided barn. The barn, at least, was made of wood and the corral looked sound. The mules’ ears pricked up at seeing the resting place and the creatures happily trotted through a gap in the gate. Sarah left the men with the animals and helped Water Blossom carry bundles into the house.
The interior of the post was damp, barren and cold, but Water Blossom soon had a fire in the hearth and a thick stew in the pot.
After a long silence, Water Blossom spoke. “I think we find the Yankton Sioux tomorrow.”
It was the first time Water Blossom had initiated a conversation and Sarah smiled what she hoped was encouragement.
“How do you know?”
Water Blossom pointed at the hearth. “They see smoke, I think.”
“But I’ve seen no one.”
“That does not mean that no one see you.”
Sarah repressed a shudder. These were Water Blossom’s people, but S
arah’s enemies.
Water Blossom stirred the stew, keeping the contents from burning, and the conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Sarah’s smile faltered as she tried to rekindle it. “How long have you been married?”
“Roubideaux is not my first husband. My father accepted his offer of ten horses and told me that I mourned no more.”
What did that mean, she wondered, but before she could ask, Water Blossom continued, lifting the spoon to emphasize her words.
“Before this I had a fine husband. He gave me a son.” The spoon drooped until it plopped back into the pot.
The woman’s chin trembled. Fingers of dread gripped Sarah’s heart, for she knew already what Water Blossom would say.
The woman worked her jaw as if crushing the grief between her teeth. Sarah held her breath as Water Blossom cleared her throat.
“They grew ill with the rotting face disease.”
Sarah’s eyes widened at this. “With what?”
“Your people call this small pox. But the pox were not small. They cover my boy’s body and inside his throat until he cannot breathe. I held him as he struggles for life and then draws breath no more.” Water Blossom raised both empty hands as if offering her dead child to Sarah. “I am broken by this when I see a mark upon my husband’s face.”
Sarah breathed her denial as she imagined losing Lucie and then seeing the same plague upon Thomas.
Water Blossom stared hard at Sarah as if she had brought this plague to this woman’s house. Sarah’s face flushed in guilt. Perhaps she had. Certainly her people had, bringing it west along the wagon trail. She knew that small pox had wiped out entire villages and now felt thoroughly ashamed that she had once thought this a very good thing.
Water Blossom stirred the stew, but her mind was obviously with her first family. “This is a terrible disease. Our medicines do nothing. The rotting face takes my beautiful husband, as well. When my husband died I do not wish to live. I lay down and waited for spots. But spots, they do not come.”
Water Blossom had no child to sustain her. Sarah turned to meet Water Blossom’s steady gaze.
“We both lose a child, but you are the lucky woman.”
Lucky? Sarah felt anything but that. “Why do you say so?”
“My child, gone away. Your child, maybe we get back.”
Sarah gazed into the woman’s dark eyes and knew she had an ally. “Thank you.”
The silence again crept into the room, but this time it did not sit heavily between them. Sarah took a seat beside the hearth.
“My husband died of cholera on the trail.”
Water Blossom met her gaze. “We have much the same. We lose men and now have new men.”
“Oh, Thomas isn’t my husband.”
Water Blossom lifted an eyebrow. Sarah wondered if she was thinking of the two nights Sarah had slept beside this man she said was not hers.
“He will be soon, I think.” Water Blossom nodded. “When you find your girl you will have everything a woman needs to be happy.”
“I was married to his brother.” It slipped out before Sarah could stop it. Why had she told Water Blossom this?
The spoon stopped. Dark eyes regarded her. “Then he have to marry you—yes?”
“Have to? No, why?”
“Husband’s brother marries widow, take as second wife. West have first wife?”
Sarah’s eyes widened in shock. The common ground they had discovered now shook badly beneath her feet.
“Is that what Indians do?” She could not quite get her mind around this. It was a terrible sin to have more than one wife.
“What else to do? Man dies and woman alone with babies, babies. Brother’s duty to feed these all.”
In an odd sort of way, that did make sense.
“It doesn’t work like that with us.”
“He leave you to raise brother’s girl alone?” Water Blossom seemed scandalized by this.
“I chose his brother over him. He is still angry.”
Water Blossom seemed to think about this before speaking. “He say this?”
Sarah shifted on the crate upon which she sat. “Well, not exactly. But he has not forgiven me.”
“He has not or you have not?”
Sarah was struck by the truth in this. She did not know if Thomas had forgiven her. She’d never asked. But that was not all that stood between them.
“Also, he has a secret. Something that happened to his younger brother. He won’t speak of it.”
“Men guard their pain, women guard their hearts. Perhaps he will never tell. It should not keep you from loving him.”
“I think it keeps him from loving me.”
The spoon stopped its circular path and the woman regarded her for a moment. “Then you must lance this pain like a boil.”
Yes, that was right, as well.
The men came in and Water Blossom served them each a portion. Only when the men had finished did Water Blossom offer Sarah a share. Water Blossom ate last, taking what was left in the pot.
Sarah wanted to speak with Thomas. She needed to slay the dragons between them. But his eyelids drooped and he nodded beside the fire.
“Where should I set my bedroll?” he asked.
“We’ll sleep close to the fire,” said the trader.
Thomas nodded wearily and laid out both his and her bedroll. Then he drew off his boots and slipped between the blankets.
There would be no talk tonight.
The next morning she awoke beside Thomas, upon the dirt floor. The scent of earth hung heavy about them. She crept out to use the outhouse and found none. She discovered some privacy in the cottonwoods that lined the river.
Through the trees, Sarah spotted a flash of color and instantly dropped to her knees. She peered over the bare branches of the brush all about her and saw the familiar stripes of Water Blossom’s blanket. Sarah found her stooped beside a narrow stream that she had not noted upon arrival yesterday. Water Blossom used the side of the wooden bucket to break the thin crust of ice that clung about the reeds.
Sarah moved closer.
“Good morning,” said Sarah.
Water Blossom started and dropped her bucket. She recovered herself, and the bucket, quickly.
“A cold morning,” said Water Blossom.
Sarah lifted the full bucket from the bank.
“I thought about what you said last night. I’m going to speak to Thomas today.”
Water Blossom cast Sarah a dubious look, but said nothing. The woman was devilishly hard to speak with.
She sat on the bank and only then did Sarah note that Water Blossom had drawn off her footgear to retrieve the water. She brushed the grass and dirt from her pink wet feet and pulled on fur-lined moccasins. Then she cocked her head and listened. Sarah listened, as well, but all she heard was the nicker of horses.
“If you talk today, then go now.”
Sarah’s smile faded and the bucket slipped from her fingers. She lifted her skirts and dashed back through the tall grass.
Rounding the sod house, Sarah stopped dead in her tracks. There before her sat Thomas on his horse. Sarah eyed his saddlebags and bedroll and then Roubideaux, also mounted, with the reins of the packhorse in his hand.
“I was just coming to find you,” said Thomas, but the nervous shifting of his eyes told another tale.
Sarah forgot all about slaying dragons as she ran forward to grasp his horse’s reins.
“Where are you going?”
Thomas dismounted. “Pierre thinks it better if you stay here with Water Blossom.”
“You are going without me?”
“It’s not safe.”
Panic seized her heart. She clung to his coat and tugged. He stroked her windblown hair.
“Do you know what will happen if I lose you, too?” she asked.
He met her gaze and she saw that he understood her. She wouldn’t survive it. Thomas stared a moment longer and then his hand settled at t
he back of her head. She knew he meant to kiss her. She tipped her head in welcome as his lips descended. His warm mouth slashed across her chilled skin. His kiss was fierce and possessive. She melted against him, emitting a sound of pure satisfaction as he deepened the kiss. Her arms encircled him as she demanded more and his tongue flicked out to dance with hers.
At last he drew back. Reluctantly, she let him go. Still holding her draped across his arm, he turned to face Roubideaux.
“We’re taking her.”
He righted Sarah. Roubideaux removed his hat and slapped it on his thigh.
“We agreed.”
Thomas said nothing, only stared in icy silence as Sarah’s heart hammered in her chest.
Roubideaux waved his hat. “Oh, all right! I need my wife anyways.” The woman in question appeared carrying both water buckets. “Saddle two more horses.”
Water Blossom nodded.
Before Roubideaux could change his mind, the women were saddled and ready. They turned their mounts north toward Indian Territory.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The arduous journey north took two days. Water Blossom fastened a travois behind one of the mules, upon which were the skins to make a teepee and most of the trade goods. Each night Sarah helped erect the dwelling. She was astonished at how quickly the tripod of poles became a snug enclosure. The fire of buffalo chips smoked, but cast out the chill that riding forced into her bones.
Sarah longed for a few moments alone with Thomas, but Roubideaux seemed perpetually at his side and she found no opportunity to speak with him.
On the morning of the day after they left the trading post, riders appear on the horizon, headed in their direction. Sarah’s heart beat with terror and hope as she recognized a party of Indians outnumbering them two to one.
Roubideaux turned toward Sarah.
“Cover your head and keep it covered.”
Water Blossom drew alongside her, giving Sarah the great heavy buffalo robe she wore instead of a coat. She pulled the heavy hide up and over Sarah’s head, dousing the flame of her hair.
Thomas’s horse shifted nervously, as if sensing his master’s unease.
Water Blossom came to the front beside her husband, as if displaying herself to the braves. The warriors halted out of range of their rifles and the two groups faced off for what seemed like hours to Sarah, who sat rigid in her saddle.
