The Angel and the Outlaw

by Madeline Baker

  “Is it?”

  He looked up at her, his expression pensive. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I mean, the things that happen to us in the past shape the future.”

  “Go on.” He was watching her carefully now.

  “Well, it’s just that, if you’d had a better childhood, you might not have turned to a life of crime.” She finished the sentence in a rush, wishing she’d never brought it up at all.

  “Are you telling me that it’s my mother’s fault that I turned out so bad?”

  “Well, not exactly.” She fidgeted under his probing gaze. “Well, yes, sort of. I mean, if you’d had parents who…who gave you a better home life, you might not have turned to a life of crime.” She looked up at him, willing him to understand what she was trying to say.

  “No one’s to blame for the way I turned out except me,” J.T. said flatly. He took Brandy’s hand in his. His mother’s hands had been rough, the nails uneven. She’d had a nasty scar on the back of her left hand, souvenir of a nasty burn a customer had inflicted with a lit cigar. Brandy’s skin was smooth and unblemished. There were no callouses, no sign that she had ever done a hard day’s work in her life.

  “I’m sorry, J.T.,” Brandy said contritely. “I didn’t mean to imply that your mother failed you in any way.”

  “Didn’t you?” He dropped Brandy’s hand back into her lap, then stared out across the river.

  When his mother’s pregnancy began to show, she had lost her job at the saloon. J.T. had looked for work, but no one wanted to hire a fourteen-year-old boy who looked more Indian than white, so he had turned to stealing. And he’d been good at it. He had quick hands and a light touch, and he’d never been caught. He had been afraid his mother wouldn’t approve of what he was doing, so he had never told her where the money came from.

  Now, looking back, he realized she must have known all along, and yet they had been so needy, she had let him steal. But then, to the Lakota way of thinking, perhaps it hadn’t been stealing at all. It was considered a coup to steal from the enemy, and back then, J.T. had viewed all whites as the enemy.

  “She did the best she could,” he murmured, more to himself than to Brandy.

  Brandy stared at J.T.’s profile, trying to imagine what it had been like for him to grow up that way, feeling that his father hated him, knowing that his mother sold herself to support him, then having to steal to support her. She was only surprised that he hadn’t turned out worse.

  “What did you do after she died?” she asked, needing to know the rest.

  J.T. shrugged. “I started hanging around with a bunch of young outlaws who were trying to make a name for themselves. Called themselves the Fenton Gang.”

  “I never heard of them.”

  “I’m not surprised. They wanted to be famous, but it never happened. I stayed with them until I was, I don’t know, sixteen, seventeen, and then I struck out on my own. By then, the gang was getting pretty small. A couple of them had been killed. Three were in jail. I decided I could do better on my own.”

  J.T. met Brandy’s gaze. “I’m a fair hand at poker, and I was a damn good thief. Never got caught.”

  “Until you stole that horse.”

  “Yeah,” J.T. agreed ruefully. “Until I stole that horse.” He stood up and offered Brandy his hand. “Come on, let’s go back.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  That night, as promised, Wicasa Tankala and Chatawinna held a wedding feast to honor J.T’s marriage to Brandy.

  There was food in abundance: buffalo ribs and steaks, venison, and other smaller cuts of meat that Brandy didn’t recognize and chose to ignore. There were wild potatoes and turnips and onions, and thick berry soup. And when the people had finished eating, there was music and storytelling and dancing.

  J.T. couldn’t help being surprised by how readily the Lakota accepted him and Brandy. The people knew nothing about him save that he was Tasina Luta’s grandson, but that seemed to be enough.

  After dinner, he sat between Brandy and his grandmother, listening to the beat of the drum, feeling the music vibrate through the ground beneath him, hearing the echo of it in his heart and in his soul. The air was thick with the scent of sage and smoke and roasting meat.

  He observed the people around him. Their faces were familiar somehow even though most of them were strangers. Hearing the Lakota language filled him with bittersweet memories of his mother.

  He watched the dances, the subtle flirting between the sexes, heard the happy, excited laughter of the children as they darted in and out of the lodges. Sitting there, in the heart of his mother’s homeland, he felt as though his whole life, until this moment, had been spent in a foreign land.

  Tasina Luta urged him to dance with Brandy and after a slight hesitation, J.T. stood up. Taking Brandy by the hand, he led her toward the dance circle.

  Neither of them knew the steps, yet they quickly caught the rhythm. Not touching, they danced back and forth and from side to side, their feet shuffling softly as they copied the movements of the other dancers.

  J.T. looked at the woman who was his wife and found no fault in her. He would not have had her taller or shorter. Her skin glowed like sun-kissed honey, her hair glistened blue-black in the firelight, her wide gray eyes sparkled with happiness. The shape of her body was hidden beneath her dress, yet he knew every curve, every slim golden inch of flesh. She moved lightly, gracefully, like a willow swaying in the wind.

  His gaze was drawn to her lips and he felt the first stirring of desire as he recalled the touch of those lips on his, the taste of her, the scent of her hair and skin. She was his, only his. The knowledge burned within him, blazing a path to his heart, arousing him until he could think of nothing but the way she had felt beneath him that morning, her hands kneading his back and shoulders, her body sheathing his, enveloping him in satin heat.

  As soon as the dance ended, J.T. took Brandy’s hand and led her away from the others. Ignoring the knowing glances of the married couples, the gentle teasing of the warriors they passed, he led her back to the privacy of their lodge.

  Brandy’s heart was beating faster than the dance drum when J.T. closed the door flap. She had seen the desire that darkened his eyes while they danced, had felt her own blood stir in answer to the hunger she had read in his gaze.

  She went into his arms willingly, eager for his kisses, desperate for the touch of his hands. Hours had passed since that morning. Hours in which she had thought of him, wanted him. Needed him.

  With eager hands, they undressed each other, then sank down on the furry buffalo robes that served as their bed.

  It was heaven to be in his arms, Brandy thought as J.T. caressed her. His hands were rough against the smoothness of her skin, yet there was something inherently sexy in the feel of his calloused hands on her flesh. The robes were soft and furry against her back; J.T.’s body was hard and warm as he poised himself over her.

  She reveled in the feel of his skin against hers. His hair brushed her cheek, his tongue stroked her lips, and she was soaring, climbing higher and higher, lost in the magic of his touch, in the soul-shattering knowledge that he loved her.

  And even then he was murmuring her name, his voice like rough velvet as he told her over and over again that he loved her, would always love her.

  “And I love you,” Brandy replied fervently. “Love you, love you, love you!”

  “Brandy.” He whispered her name, his voice thick with emotion. “Promise you’ll tell me that every day of our time together.”

  “I promise.”

  Braced on his elbows, J.T. gazed into her face, his body firmly sheathed within hers.

  “I love you,” he said again. “I’ll love you every day of my life.”

  “I know.” She felt the warmth of his gaze caress her as she stroked his cheek. “I know.”

  He buried his face in the soft hollow of her shoulder as he thrust into her again and again, as if seeking to meld thei
r bodies together so that nothing could ever separate them.

  Every day of his life, Brandy thought, aware that they had less than a year to spend together. She blinked back bittersweet tears, knowing that a few months would never be enough.

  A million years would not be enough.

  * * * * *

  J.T.’s sense of belonging increased with each passing day. He spent a part of each afternoon with his grandmother and quickly grew to love her. Tasina Luta was a warm, caring woman, eager to tell him stories about his mother’s childhood, of the grandfather he had never known. For the first time in his life, J.T. had a sense of who he was and where he belonged.

  One afternoon, Tasina Luta gave J.T. a rattle fashioned of leather in the shape of a horned toad. Two black and white eagle feathers were fastened to the carved wooden handle.

  J.T. turned the rattle over in his hands, admiring the simple beauty of it.

  “It belonged to your grandfather,” Tasina Luta remarked, pleased by the admiration in her grandson’s eyes. “It is the only thing of his I have left. It is for you.”

  “No,” J.T. said quickly. “I couldn’t take it.”

  Tasina Luta patted J.T.’s arm. “It is yours, cinks. He told me once that I was never to give it away, that I was to give it to your mother when she came home again. Now it is yours.”

  J.T.’s hand caressed the wood. “Tell me about my grandfather. How did you meet?”

  Tasina Luta smiled wistfully. “I met him in the summer, during the Sun Dance. He had come to trade with our people. He was a handsome man, tall and straight and strong, with bright blue eyes and dark hair. Big shoulders. Long legs.”

  Tasina Luta sighed, remembering the first day she had seen the wasichu the Lakota had called Walks the Rainbow. She had seen few white men in her life, but she had known, in that one swift look, that this was the man she would marry.

  “He stayed for the Sun Dance,” she went on. “I saw him every day, but always from a distance. When the days of the Sun Dance festival were over, he asked my father if he could stay with our people for the rest of the summer. My father agreed.

  “Walks the Rainbow often followed me when I went to the river for water, hoping to catch me alone. We spoke many times. He was not like the other white men who came to us. He respected our people and our ways. He spoke our language. He hunted the buffalo with my father and my brothers.”

  Tasina Luta smiled wistfully. “He did not leave our village when winter came, and the following spring he raided the Crow horse herd and brought many stolen Crow ponies to my father’s lodge.

  “At first, my father was angry because I wanted to marry a wasichu instead of one of our own young men, but Walks the Rainbow was very persistent. In the end, my father gave us his blessing and we were married that summer.”

  Tasina Luta sighed. “My husband was a brave and honorable man, and I was proud to be his wife. After a time, no one remembered that he was wasichu. I think maybe he forgot it, too. We had three babies before your mother was born. Three little boys. They all died. But your mother was strong, and we loved her.”

  “How did my grandfather die?”

  She didn’t answer right away; when she did, there were tears in her eyes. “Our village was attacked by the bluecoats last spring. They came in the middle of the night and set our lodges on fire.” Hatred replaced her tears. “Our young men ran out to fight the soldiers to give the women and children a chance to get away.

  “Your grandfather stayed behind to help. He was pulling one of our old ones from a burning lodge when a bluecoat shot him in the back. Nape Luta killed the bluecoat and carried your grandfather to safety, but he never recovered from his wound. He died in his sleep last summer.”

  Tears burned J.T.’s eyes as he took his grandmother’s hand in his.

  “I’m sorry, grandmother,” he said. “I am sorry I was not here when you needed me.”

  “The past is a road that cannot be traveled again, cinks. You are here now. That is what matters.”

  * * * * *

  Brandy quickly adapted to life with the Lakota which was, after all, not so different from living with the Crow. Oddly enough, she felt more at home here, with J.T.’s people, more welcome, more relaxed. Perhaps it was because J.T. had relatives here, perhaps it was simply that Tasina Luta made Brandy feel as if she belonged. Each day, she gained a new appreciation for the Lakota lifestyle. She quickly grew to love J.T.’s grandmother, and she developed a keen affection for the children.

  She noticed that the little girls quickly learned their place in Lakota society. Women were expected to be reserved in the presence of men and older women. A proper Lakota girl was generous, industrious, kind, and loving to all. She learned early that the women ate apart from men, that they sat on the left side of the tipi, that she must use the female language when she spoke, and that she must sit in a modest position. From her mother, she learned how to cook and gather wood and berries, how to keep a lodge tidy. Quilling and beading were tasks at which she was expected to excel. If she had a younger brother or sister, she would often be responsible for caring for the child.

  The Lakota practiced avoidance, which meant that a woman never looked directly at her father-in-law, and never spoke to him. Likewise, a man never looked at or spoke directly to his mother-in-law.

  The little boys, no matter what their age, were ever aware that they would become warriors. At an early age, they played arduous games, choosing sides and fighting mock battles. They listened to the old men recite thrilling war stories, they watched their mothers and sisters dance during the Scalp Dance, they saw the young men proudly wearing their badges of honor. They rode horses that had been stolen from the Crow and the Pawnee. And they learned that being a warrior carried risk when a brother or a cousin failed to return from battle and the people mourned, cutting their hair short, slashing their legs in grief. Watching at the young boys, she tried to imagine J.T. as he might have been if had grown up with the Lakota. How different his life would have been, she thought, and yet, selfishly, she couldn’t help feeling grateful that his mother had left home, that J.T. had become a celebrated outlaw, and that, through a mystical force she couldn’t hope to understand, they had been brought together.

  As there had been with the Crow, there were men who dressed as women and followed female pursuits. Such men were revered by the Crow, and while they were respected by the Lakota, it was obvious that they were also feared. Because they wore women’s clothes, the winktes, as they were called, were an object of disdain and were referred to as having the heart of a woman, which, to a Lakota warrior, was the worst insult a man could receive. Winktes lived in their own lodges at the edge of the camp circle, an area set aside for ancient widows and orphans.

  Brandy overheard one father telling his son that he must leave the winktes alone. There were many reasons why men became winktes. Sometimes a man dreamed that, by living as a woman, he would live a long life. Such men made good shamans. It was believed that if a winkte was asked to name a child, the child would grow up without illness.

  Brandy couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the winkte, who was viewed with respect on one hand and feared on the other.

  * * * * *

  The days slipped by peacefully. By the end of the second week, J.T. felt as if Lakota was his native language.

  It pleased him to see how readily Brandy embraced the Lakota way of life. She spent a good deal of time with Tasina Luta, who was teaching her to speak Lakota. She made friends with several of the women. By the end of the third week, it seemed as if they had always been a part of the Lakota circle. The children adored Brandy, and she genuinely liked them, making it easy to see why she had become a schoolmarm in her own time.

  “Do you miss being a teacher?” J.T. asked one afternoon while they were watching a handful of boys play the swing-kicking game.

  “Yes, I do,” she replied truthfully, and wondered how Nancy Leigh was getting along, and if Bobby was doing better in his foster ho
me.

  Thoughts of her class reminded her of home, and she realized, with a twinge of guilt, that she hadn’t thought of her parents or her friends in several days.

  “I’m sorry, Brandy,” J.T. said heavily. “I guess this isn’t easy for you.”

  “Stop it,” she exclaimed, placing her hand over his mouth. “I’ve never been happier than I am now, here, with you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As much as J.T. loved living with the Lakota, he soon discovered that just being among his mother’s people wasn’t enough. He didn’t want to be viewed as an outsider or a visitor, he wanted to be an integral part of the whole. He wanted to be a warrior in every sense of the word.

  They had been living with the Lakota for a little over a month when J.T. asked Tatanka Sapa to teach him how to use a bow and arrow. Tatanka Sapa looked somewhat surprised at the request, but readily agreed, and thereafter J.T. spent a part of each morning at target practice.

  He quickly discovered it wasn’t as easy as it looked.

  Apparently, a full-grown man learning to use a bow was a novelty not often seen, and after the first day, J.T. began to feel like a circus attraction as numerous boys and girls, and sometimes their parents, gathered around to watch his efforts with the bow and arrow, something every Lakota boy mastered at a very early age.

  J.T. accepted their amused laughter with good grace, knowing they weren’t laughing at him, but with him. The young girls giggled behind their hands when his arrows went wide of the mark; the young boys cheered when his arrows hit the bull’s-eye. Gradually, his aim got better and he hit what he was aiming at more often than not.

  Once he learned to hit a stationery target, he was ready to practice on moving targets. He learned to draw an arrow from a quiver slung over his back while chasing a buffalo at a full gallop. It was no easy thing, to hold a bow steady and sight down the shaft of an arrow while mounted on a running horse. But it was exhilarating!

  He knew he would never forget the thrill of his first hunt, the excitement of his first kill. Tatanka Sapa had cut off the buffalo’s tail and presented it to J.T. and Wicasa Tankala had smeared a handful of the buffalo’s blood across J.T.’s forehead.