by Sharon Ihle
"Yes, ma'am, right away, ma'am." The officer snapped to attention, suddenly awed by his find. "You must be the gal General Custer has been so worried about. He's had his troops out looking for your body since yesterday.''
"My body?" She sniffed.
"Well, that is, we assumed you'd drowned. He's going to be mighty glad to see you're alive." In his excitement, the soldier saluted her, then whirled on his heel and started for the gate.
Afraid he would leave her alone, exhausted and still fighting off the effects of the medicine, Dominique forgot her manners and called after him, "Wait for me, you nincompoop. '' Then she lifted the fringes of her dress out of the slush and stomped after him. "You're not leaving me behind. Being the hostage of a band of savages once is bloody enough adventure for me."
Lieutenant Macky turned back, his thin features florid, his expression mortified. Again he saluted her, then stammered, "Sorry ma'am, I meant—that is, I didn't forget you. I was just going after a buggy." He reached out to take her arm, but she waved him away.
"I can walk, Private."
"That's lieutenant, ma'am." He grinned, looking sheepish and uncertain. "I only wanted to help you."
"Oh, of course." She sighed. Ashamed of her waspish tongue, Dominique lowered her voice and assumed a more ladylike demeanor. "I know you're only trying to help. I'm afraid I'm a little on edge and not feeling too well after all I've been through. I also have a bruised chin and ribs that feel as if they're on fire. I'm sorry if I offended you, Private."
This time Lieutenant Macky didn't bother to correct her. He offered his arm again. "Please, then, allow me to escort you to your uncle."
But just as she was about to accept, Dominique had the strangest sensation she was being watched. She snapped her head around to the north and stared at the distant stand of juniper trees. Although she couldn't see them, she could feel the Sioux's eyes on her, watching, laughing.
Dominique lifted her chin and her buckskin skirt and sashayed on past the lieutenant. "I appreciate the offer, sir, but I'm feeling much better now. Which way to the general's quarters?"
The buggy turned out to be a mule-drawn cart with only two wheels and a hard wooden seat. It bounced and lurched down the mile-long hill separating the infantry garrison from the cavalry post situated in the valley below. By the time Dominique stood before the large wood-frame home, her backside was nearly as sore as her ribs. She quickly forgot her discomfort as she approached the front porch. A grand white stairway, built in the shape of a pyramid with the top removed, beckoned.
Dominique sighed as her moccasin touched down on the first tread. "Why, this is just like walking up one side of a fancy wedding cake. Is the rest of the house as grand, sir?"
"Oh, I wouldn't know, ma'am," he said as he knocked on the glass-framed door. "I've only been inside the parlor, but it's sure nice. Real nice."
The wide door swung open to reveal a large colored woman. The maid stared through skeptical black eyes, then wrinkled her nose. In a voice that twanged like a southern guitar, she said, "What business y'all got here?"
"Uh, the lady, she says she's, uh—"
"Tell General Custer his niece, Dominique DuBois, is alive and well." Taking a step toward the threshold, she added, "Be sure to tell him I am standing here freezing in these filthy buckskins, too."
Her manner, added to the family resemblance and name, startled the servant to action. She curtsied and backed down the hallway, "Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am. Come on in."
Dominique turned to her escort and managed a wan smile. "Thank you for seeing me to my uncle's home. That will be all, Private."
"Ah, yes, Miss Custer, ah, yes," he stammered as he slowly made his way back down the stairs. "Please be sure to remember me to the general—that's Lieutenant Macky. I'd appreciate it."
"Yes, of course. And my name is the same as my father's—DuBois." Dominique waved to the lieutenant, then spun around and waltzed through the front door. As she looked around the parlor, she heard approaching footsteps. The staircase creaked, then Elizabeth Bacon Custer burst through the arched entrance to the room.
"Oh, my stars," she cried, her small hands cupping her girlish features. "It's true. You really are alive and well."
“Aunt Libbie, am I glad to see you.'' The women closed the short distance separating them and threw themselves into each other's arms.
"Oh, you poor thing," Libbie went on, her relief sending a flood of tears to her throat. "Autie is going to be so happy to see you. I've sent one of the servants after him." Libbie stepped back and scrutinized her husband's niece. She pulled her fingers through Dominique's tangle of frizzy curls and asked, "How did you ever survive a dunking in that treacherous river? Where have you been? And where did you get those awful clothes?"
"It's a long incredible story," Dominique said with a sigh, "but one that I cannot begin to tell until I'm clean and warm again."
"Of course, dear." Libbie turned toward the kitchen. "Mary?" she called out. "You and some of the help draw a hot tub for my niece. Scoot along now and be quick about it. The poor girl's near to freezing."
Two black girls scrambled out of the kitchen carrying large copper kettles, and the third, Mary, motioned for Dominique to follow her up the gracefully curved stairway.
But Dominique hesitated a moment and turned back to her aunt. "My goodness, are all these servants yours?"
Libbie grinned, enormously proud of her husband's insistence on keeping her in style, no matter what other hardships she might have to bear. "Yes, dear. Mary and her sisters go just about everywhere with the general and me. I don't know what we'd do without them."
Dominique raised her brows, nodding slowly as she made a fast perusal of the elegant home. Perhaps, she thought, her sparkling smile back in full bloom, this little trip would turn out to be the adventure she'd dreamed it would be.
Later, after a deliciously hot bath scented with her favorite perfume, lilac, Dominique sat huddled in front of a roaring fire in the luxurious living room of her uncle's home. Her hair had been washed, dried, and rolled into an attractive coil pinned to the back of her head. She was dressed in one of Libbie's warm flannel nightgowns and a voluminous robe.
Now snuggled beneath two quilts made by the officers' wives, she tested a bit of barley soup from a steaming bowl. "Umm, that's wonderful. Thanks."
Libbie, her brow still creased with worry, said, "I wish we had some chicken to put in it, but we're at the end of our winter supplies." Dismissing the cook and self- appointed mistress of the servants, Libbie waved into the air, "That will be all, Mary. Tell your sisters I appreciate their efforts in warming my niece."
"Yes'm." The round woman began backing out of the room, muttering, "If y'all be needin' anything else, just you holler."
"We will." Libbie waited until the cook was out of sight before she turned to her niece, her blue-gray eyes bright with fear. "Mary says you're covered with welts and bruises. What's happened to you, Nikki? Has someone—your rescuers, perhaps, did they ... violate you in any way?"
Dominique swallowed another mouthful of broth, then patted her mouth with Libbie's lace-trimmed napkin and shook her head. "No one hurt me in that way, but as for the rest, I really don't know what happened after the boat turned over. One minute I was swirling downstream in that horrid freezing water"—she paused and shuddered at the memory—"and the next thing I knew, I was lying on a buffalo skin in a tipi."
"A tipi? My Lord, you were captured by Indians?"
Dominique nodded as she took another spoonful of soup.
"Oh, my stars," Libbie groaned, knowing full well how the inhabitants of the East Coast looked on the West and its abundance of "savages." "Your father's going to have apoplexy when he hears about this."
Dominique's almond-shaped eyes flew open. "You haven't wired Papa and told him I was missing."
"No, no, but just the same—" Libbie shook her head and took her niece's hand in hers. "I just know Jacques will never speak to me again. After a
ll, I'm the one who begged and needled him to let you come out west to keep me company. I'm the one who's going to incur his wrath for bringing you out to the Dakota Territory before the spring thaw was fully upon us."
Even though Dominique was thoroughly warmed, guilt chilled an icy path up her spine as she listened to her aunt. It was she, not Libbie, who'd done the begging and pleading, she who'd enlisted the aid of everyone from the general's youngest sister, Margaret, to casual acquaintances in her quest to persuade her father to let her make the trip. It had sounded so exciting at the time—so full of adventure. The stuff from which the little forbidden books were made.
Dominique hung her head and quietly murmured, "Please don't blame yourself. I'm to blame for everything bad that happens to me. If I just wasn't so strong-willed and determined to get my way, these things wouldn't happen. Papa is right—not even a fine lady like you can teach me how to behave. You ought to just put me on a train and send me back home."
"No more of that, Nikki. I've had enough of the general's nephews and nieces join us for your father to know he was right when he agreed to let you visit us. What I blame myself for is not waiting another month before sending for you." Libbie began to wring her hands as she thought of the near-disaster. “One never knows about that horrid, treacherous river when crossing from Bismarck to Fort Lincoln, but I was afraid if I waited any longer, the general's newest campaign would take us away before you could get here. I am sorry for the—"
A great commotion in the hallway cut off her words. Both women turned toward the arched entrance of the parlor as male voices grew louder. Then George Armstrong Custer burst into the room.
His very presence commanded the attention of all wherever he strode, transformed the atmosphere around him into awe. He wore troop boots reaching up to his knees and buckskin breeches with fringed sides. His shirt, rumpled and slightly askew, was dark blue and set off by a long red necktie. After removing the large felt hat he wore bent low over his forehead to protect his delicate skin from the sun, he shook his head, the thick red-gold curls brushing the tops of his shoulders.
"Dominique," he said in a tight voice. "Then it is you."
"Hello, Uncle Armstrong." Dominique's dark brown eyes flashed with good humor and began to sparkle as her playful nature slowly returned. "Papa sends his greetings."
Sharing a nervous chuckle with the ladies, Custer pulled a three-legged footstool up beside Dominique's rocking chair. "And now, finally, I can send my greetings to him and news of your safe arrival. For a time there ..." He left the sentence unfinished and shook his head.
"Autie," Libbie cut in softly. "The poor dear was captured by Indians before being found by the infantry.''
"Oh?" Custer cocked a thick cinnamon-colored eyebrow and studied her more closely. "How did you manage to escape from them, Nikki? You look to be in good health."
"I didn't really escape," she said, trying to sort through all the strange images her time of captivity brought to mind. "Everything is so fuzzy, I really only remember waking up in a tipi, then riding off this morning with a great big Indian. He took me to the woods outside the fort"—she caressed the bruise on her chin, scowling as she remembered the unexpected blow—"and one of your guards found me."
"You said he," Custer prodded, his clear blue eyes suspicious and calculating. "Did this Indian have a name? Did he mention the name of his tribe? Was it Crow or Mandan?"
"His name was Redfoot, and he said the name of his tribe meant Sioux to the English."
"English? He spoke to you in our language?"
Dominique nodded.
Custer hesitated, then shrugged. "Not so very unusual, I guess. Some tribes, the Sioux in particular, like to have at least one warrior among them who can understand a few words of English." His elaborate mustache twitched as his gentle questioning became more of an interrogation. "In any case, I'm sure you weren't in the company of a Sioux. This Indian's grasp of the language must have been poor, and you may have misunderstood the name of his tribe. Was he alone, or were there others with him?"
"But I'm sure he said Sioux," she insisted, her eyes wide and alert. Dominique pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples and tried to remember the other details. "I think I peeked outside once and saw more tipis, but I can't be sure if they were real or if I dreamed them up."
Custer's brow rose even higher. He pulled his hat off and lowered his voice to a more fatherly, gentle tone. "Think back, Nikki. I know you must have been very frightened, but try to remember. I need to know every last detail of your captivity in order to bring those savages to justice."
"Oh, Uncle Armstrong," she said, her voice close to a whimper. "It's not that I was so frightened—I was a little scared a couple of times—but I just can't seem get anything straight in my mind. The Indian made me drink some medicine, and then ... I can't explain it. My brain seemed to leave me, and all these colors—"
"You were drugged," he growled, his expression stern. He tugged on the end of his mustache, wondering how best to broach the next subject. Custer glanced at his wife, thinking of eliciting her aid, and then looked beyond her to the entryway as the front door opened then slammed shut.
Captain Tom Custer stamped into the room. A few years younger, a couple of inches shorter, and several ranks below his famous brother, his florid complexion was due to exertion, not allergies. "Nikki? Thank God. Are you all right?"
Accepting his hand as he approached, Dominique brought it to her cheek. "I'll be all right, Uncle Tom."
Impatient to get at the truth, Custer sliced into their greeting. "You ever hear of a Sioux called Redfoot, Tom?"
"Redfoot? Humm, no, can't say that I have. Why?"
"Nikki says he saved her from drowning, then brought her to the fort. He said he was Sioux."
"Huh?" Tom looked from his brother to his niece, then back to Custer again. "I didn't realize there were any Sioux left in this neck of the woods."
"There aren't supposed to be." Scooting the stool closer to his niece, Custer took her small hands in his. Stroking her soft flesh with skin ravaged by a sun allergy and years of outdoor work, he softened his tone as he continued his probe.
"Let's try something else. Surely you saw the Indian before he drugged you. Can you describe him? Can you remember anything he said to help us figure out who he really was?"
Shrugging, Dominique thought back to the night, to her first memory of the Indian who called himself Redfoot. "It was awfully dark, even with the little fire he made. I never saw his face. All I can remember is his long heavy braids and ..."
She closed her eyes and tried to recall the last twenty- four hours. Fragmented thoughts, like damp grains of sand, fell in painfully slow particles through the hourglass of her mind. The image of Redfoot's nude buttocks glistening in the shadows appeared. Then she saw his torso, the sable curls enhancing the contours of his thick chest, and suddenly for some reason, she knew exactly what it felt like to be pressed against the length that hard muscular body. She shivered, yet felt a great bud of warmth bloom in her abdomen at the same time.
Popping her lashes open, she gasped as a blush crawled up the sides of her neck. "I can't tell you any more than that. I didn't get a good look at him."
Custer's gaze turned narrow, thoughtful. As he leaned even closer, the tip of his large, crooked nose came within inches of her cheek as he whispered, "If this Indian has hurt you in any way, touched you anywhere he shouldn't have, you can rest assured that Tom and I will track him to the ends of the earth and see that he is punished severely."
"No, Uncle Armstrong," she insisted, even as her fingertips went to her mouth, to her swollen upper lip. "He didn't hurt me at all. If anything, he saved my life." And then, as if to shield her from the memory of how her mouth received its bruises, her mind provided a forgotten word. "Oh. I remember what he called himself—Lakota. That's it. He said Sioux was a word we might use for Lakota."
Clearly disturbed by the information, Custer jerked to his feet. "Do you h
ave any idea in which direction the Indian traveled when he brought you to the fort?"
"North—northwest, I think. Yes, I'm sure we came in from the northwest."
"Through the trees and up to the infantry post?"
"Yes."
Swiveling toward his wife, he said, "See that Nikki is fed and rested. Tom and I are going to gather a few troops and go on a little mission."
"Oh, Autie." Libbie started to rise, but her husband's gentle hand pushed her back in her chair.
"Don't worry, sunbeam. As usual, your boy will take very good care of himself." He kissed her forehead, then gestured to his brother as he strode from the room. "Run over to Company B and pick out three good men. I'll meet you at the quartermaster's."
