by Sharon Ihle
Dominique leaned forward and sniffed. When the foul odor assaulted her nostrils, she forgot her vows and grimaced, blurting out, "What in bloody hell is this stuff?" She instantly regretted the impulsive comment, but when she glanced up at Spotted Feather expecting to receive a blow of some kind, the Indian surprised her with a grin.
"This is good stuff, Tongue with Many Quills. You will like what it does for your white skin." She laughed and pointed. "See the old women? See their pretty hands?"
Dominique looked at the other workers as they held up their gnarled fingers, and gasped. Stretched over the crooked bones was skin dry enough and tough enough to stand on its own.
Laughing, Spotted Feather explained. "Pretty, are they not? You, too, will have such hands after smoothing the hides with this magic we make with cooked brains, liver, and urine."
"Oh." Dominique wrapped her arms around her stomach and leaned away from the hide. She fought the retching, struggled to retain some measure of her pride, but her senses were too offended. She collapsed in the dirt, heaving up the remnants of last night's supper.
In her misery, she could hear the women's mocking laughter, their cruel taunts, but Dominique no longer cared. She wished only to die, to have the ground swallow her and take her to the bowels of hell if necessary. It had to be a better place than this.
"Get up, weak-hearted one." Spotted Feather grabbed a handful of her captive's wool serge dress and pulled her upright. "Enough of this nonsense. Work now. Do not stop until the old woman says you can." She released her, and although wobbly, Dominique remained sitting. With another laugh, Spotted Feather went on her way.
Her stomach finally resigned to the sickening odor, Dominique fought tears of despair instead of nausea as she worked into the late afternoon. When the old women released her, she stumbled back through the village, her eyes downcast, her ears barely hearing the taunts and remarks the warriors made as she passed by. No longer caring what they said or thought, she continued on her way. One particularly randy warrior reached out, tugging at her skirt, and grabbing at his crotch. Beaten, she paid him no heed and staggered on toward the tipi. Back inside the shelter she walked to the far wall and sank cross-legged onto the rug.
Dominique stayed there in a trancelike state, her eyes glazed, for an hour before her troubled mind slowly directed her back to the present. After reviewing her predicament she let her shoulders slump. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her bottom lip began to quiver uncontrollably. Dominique took a breath that was more of a sob just as the flap to the tipi opened and someone stepped across the entrance.
Jerking her head up, Dominique tried to shield her eyes from the setting sun, but she could only identify the fact that her visitor was a man—a savage who wore only a breechclout. The exposed parts of his body—his massive chest and long muscular legs—glistening in the eerie glow of sundown, threatened and fascinated her at once. But, more frightened than anything, Dominique opened her mouth and screamed.
"Hush, now," he soothed, "there is no need to act the crazy one now. It's me, Jacob."
She'd just filled her lungs for another bloodcurdling scream when she realized what he'd said. Scrambling to her feet, she peered through the rays of the sun. "Jacob? Is it really you?"
"Yes, Dominique. You have no need to be afraid now."
"Oh, Jacob," she sobbed, stumbling across the buffalo rug and throwing herself into his arms. "I swear, I can't stand another minute here. Please, please," she cried, her arms outstretched. "I beg you to take me away. I'll go anywhere, do anything, but you've got to get me away from these savages."
"Hush, now," he said into her tangled hair. "It can't be that bad."
"Oh, but it is," she insisted, renewing her outburst. "You can't believe what they made me do, what they made me eat. Oh, Jacob, I don't even know what it is they've been feeding me, but I've been sick since you left me here."
"As I've been sick since joining the cavalry," he said, stroking her hair.
Something snapped. Dominique jerked out of his arms. "That's hardly the same. I mean I've really been sick. Why, if you knew the things I've done. My hands—" She held them out, palms up, for his inspection. "Just look at that."
Jacob took her hands in his, his brow creasing as he studied the cracks and welts in her shriveled skin. "What have you been doing?"
"Rubbing some horrid stuff into buffalo hides, sticking my hands in it all day long."
"You have been tanning hides?" he said, incredulous.
"I guess so. All I know is that the stuff I had to work with made me sick to my stomach, but that squaw, the mean one, made me do it anyway. Oh, and she tried to kill me, too. She stabbed me right here." Dominique raised her arm and pointed to a tear in the fabric of her bodice. "If it wasn't for my corset, I don't know that I would have survived."
She cut off her diatribe when she realized she was discussing her undergarments with a man. If she hadn't been so upset, she might have laughed when she realized that man had been raised by Indians and probably had no idea what she was talking about. "Well," she sputtered instead, "it really doesn't matter. What does matter is that I'm here and I hate it. I really must demand you take me back to the fort."
"You know I can't do that," he said softly, wondering which squaw had attacked her, pretty sure if he guessed Spotted Feather, he would have the correct name.
"But, Jacob," she cried, panic edging into her voice, "you've just got to. I'm begging. Please take me back. I swear by all that's holy I'll never tell a living soul about you being a spy. Not one person. You can trust me, really you can," she added, her brown eyes round and pitiful. "Please, Jacob?"
"You are very convincing, but I'm afraid the answer must be no. Taking you back to the soldiers or to the fort is impossible. You must remain here with me."
"With you?" she spat, twisting away from him. "This is all your fault." She drew her arm back, preparing to slap him with all her might, but as she swung around, he caught her wrist in midair.
"Careful, crazy one. Hitting me, or any Lakota, is not a good idea. You will be repaid for such an insult in ways that would pain me to describe."
Jerking her hand free, she jutted her chin out. "What do you care about me? You've hit me with your fist, not once, but twice. I'm the one who owes you pain."
He raised his brows, then shrugged. "Perhaps you are right." Dropping the bundle he carried, he spread his legs and placed his hands on his hips. "Go ahead. Hit me twice. You deserve to have your vengeance."
Grumbling deep in her throat, Dominique curled up her fist and pulled her elbow back, but as she stared up into his deep blue eyes, her anger melted to reveal a core of despair.
"Oh, Jacob," she sighed, dazed, "I don't want to hit you. I want to go home." Her arms dropped to her sides and her chin trembled. "All the way home to Michigan. I want my papa." Then tears began to sprinkle the front of her dress.
Unraveled by a sight a Lakota warrior rarely witnessed, Jacob felt his brave stance waver, leaving him rigid and awkward. "Please, Dominique. Don't do that. I cannot help you if you do that."
"What?" she sobbed.
"This crying." He wiggled a finger at her damp cheeks. "I do not like this. Stop it at once."
"Stop crying?" she said, amazed at the request. "First you kidnap me, and nearly break my jaw. Then you force me to live like an animal with these heathens, and now you tell me I can't go home or even cry about it?" Her anger grew as she spoke, and she damned the tide of tears that fell without her consent. "Why, you miserable, you clabber-headed—"
"Nincompoop?" he supplied, hoping to lighten her mood.
"You're a nincompoop, all right, but you're worse, too. You're the scum of the earth, a two-bit no-good lousy—" She struggled to think of a word bad enough to describe him, yet filthy enough to wake up God and make him take notice of her dilemma. She finally came up with one. "You're a no-good bastard, Jacob Stoltz Redfoot whoever- the-hell-you-are. And what's more, I hate you, and I'll hate you until the day my uncle
Armstrong shoots a hole through your thick head."
Jacob's eyes narrowed, and his mouth spread into a long grim line. "Dress yourself in this." He pointed to the bundle he'd dropped, adding in an icy tone, "You will find travel and work more comfortable. Put it on now. Soon you and I will take food with the others." Then he turned and stepped out of the tipi.
Dominique's heart constricted. She started after him, abruptly pulling up when she reached the opening. Looking out through the flap, she watched his retreating back, saw the other warriors greeting him and slapping his strong shoulders. He was out of her reach now, out of her world. Her sobs returned as she whispered, "I didn't mean it, Jacob. Really I didn't. I just want to go home."
But he couldn't hear her, couldn't hear anything but the dull beating of his heavy heart. He, not Dominique, was the crazy one, he muttered to himself. What ever had made him think she could be happy here, that she could adjust to life in the village?
Jacob announced himself as he approached the medicine lodge, then stepped inside for treatment of his wounds. When he emerged several minutes later, his injuries were soothed, but his heart still ached. What could he do? When would his mind ever rest again? Knowing the answer to that question had something to do with Dominique, unwilling to see just what that answer would lead him to do, Jacob pinched the angry cut slicing into his biceps and gave his mind something else to think about.
His arm still throbbing, he reached the flap of his tipi, and called out, "Are you dressed? We must take our meal with the others now."
"I'm not coming outside in this."
Jacob blew out a sigh and tore open the flap. She stood near the entrance. With a quick movement, he reached inside and grabbed her arm. "You stretch my patience as if it were the hide you tanned. Let us eat." Then he jerked her outside.
"Jacob." Horrified, Dominique tore free of his grip, then bent at the waist. She crossed her hands in front of her knees and looked around. "Are you insane? I can't be seen in this."
"I don't understand." He stood back, studying the dress, appreciating the intriguing body beneath it, then shrugged. "You look beautiful. You must also be more comfortable. Come. Let us eat."
"Jacob, I can't. This dress doesn't even cover my knees."
"It covers all it needs to. Look around—you show no more than the other women."
"But I'm not like the other women. They are, well, they're Indians. I, on the other hand"—she raised her chin a notch—"am a lady. I simply cannot show my arms and legs, especially in front of you."
Jacob stood back and crossed his arms over his chest. Spreading his legs, he began a slow, lazy grin, saying with his eyes what he didn't dare speak in words.
It took Dominique only a moment to read the message. He'd already seen her legs—and much, much more. She thought back to the night in his tipi, the frozen encounter that seemed so long ago, and remembered how the heat from his naked body had brought life back to hers. He knew her almost as intimately as a husband. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the vivid memory, then fought the blush rising up from her breasts.
"Come, now," he encouraged softly. "My friends will be so fascinated with your hair, they will not even notice your legs."
Unable to meet his gaze as images of their first meeting continued to appear in her mind, Dominique allowed him to lead her to the campfire. When he said to sit, she dropped to the ground, tucked her legs beneath her, and took the bowl of food he offered. She did all of this dutifully, without so much as a glance at him or at the other savages gathered around the fire ring.
"Dominique," he said under his breath as he sat cross- legged beside her. "Look up. Greet my people with a smile."
Lifting her lashes ever so slowly, Dominique glanced around at his companions and offered a short nod before she dropped her gaze back to her lap. A few women remained, apparently waiting for a good look at the curious white slave. All of them stared at her as if she were some kind of freak. Then one by one, they faded back to their own lodges, no longer interested in the stranger. Spotted Feather stayed, spearing Dominique with an angry glance every time she got the chance.
"Eat your stew," said Jacob, keeping one eye on the warriors. To a man, they stared openly at Dominique, displaying an interest that went far beyond curiosity. He was going to have to make some decisions soon, lay down some rules, and try to make his friends understand that this white woman could not be community property.
"Jacob," Dominique whispered under her breath as she stared down into the bowl, "what's in this?"
"It is harmless. A little buffalo meat, some wild peas, and a root called prairie turnips. Stew. It is good."
Cautiously, she lifted the container to her mouth and took a small sip. The flavor, while nothing fancy, was surprisingly good. She tilted the bowl and captured a piece of meat with her tongue, then noticed the heated gaze of one of the warriors sitting near her. She chewed her food, never taking her eyes off the aggressive Indian, then whispered to Jacob. "I don't like the way your friend is staring at me. Make him stop it."
"Do not look at him." Jacob glared at Chatanna, knowing he would try to do a lot more than stare at the golden vision the next time opportunity struck. Would Gall be able to prevent the inevitable? Did he even have the right to ask his brothers to forgo taking what they felt was their right? Beside him, Dominique squirmed, nudging him with her complaints.
"Forget Chatanna and eat. He means no harm," Jacob lied, hoping to ease her fears, even if he couldn't relieve his own. "You will soon feel at home."
Unable to play the obedient captive any longer, Dominique slammed her bowl on the ground and turned on him. "Never. I could never feel at home under these barbaric conditions, and I cannot survive eating this slop."
"Then don't eat," he snapped back, his anxiety beginning in earnest, his patience at an end. "Starve to death if you wish. It no longer matters to me."
Turning his back to her, Jacob began to stuff chunks of buffalo meat in his mouth, swallowing them along with the lump in his throat. When he finished his meal, he jerked her to her feet in spite of her unfinished supper, then marched her back to his tipi.
"Stay in here and go to sleep. Do not come outside again tonight." Dominique opened her mouth, but Jacob closed it with a well-placed finger. "We'll speak no more this night. Do as I say and you will be safe."
Then he closed the flap and headed for the warriors' lodge. He'd run out of time, used up nearly all of his options. And he couldn't go on like this. As long as Dominique was in camp, as long as his friends expected to have what was rightfully theirs, he could not complete his mission. His concentration—the considerable lack of it since he'd met the crazy one—would soon become a problem, if it hadn't already. His full attention was crucial to the Lakota survival. Jacob could think of only one way to regain the concentration he so badly needed.
The time had come to take some drastic measures.
Chapter Thirteen
Jacob looked across the dying fire and into the eyes of his father, Gall. He continued trying to put into words that which he really couldn't explain. "But, Father, you saw her hands. You know what the other women have forced her to do. The crazy one is too young to tan hides. That is a job for old women. What else will they make her do if you and I cannot protect her in some way?"
The wise chief regarded his white son a long moment before he spoke. "I agree she has been treated badly, especially by the one who would hope to be yours, but I believe there is something more here. Something that has nothing to do with the other warriors or this white woman's wrinkled hands. Speak to me of it now, or this council is over and we shall not mention the crazy one again."
Jacob drew a long breath and stared into the flickering embers. How much should he confess? Would a complete explanation garner his father's understanding or earn his disdain? Too much discussion of Dominique, of her family, and of the reasons for her visit, would bring up the Custer name. Jacob didn't need his imagination to know what the council would do
with that information. He suppressed a shudder and settled on a half-truth, taking the only option he knew would be respected and, he hoped, understood by all.
"I wish to have the crazy one as my woman alone. I ask for your permission to marry her."
"Ah." Chief Gall nodded, as if he'd been expecting the announcement. "I feared this change in you. I suspected once you were returned to the people of your birth, you might wish to become one of them again."
"No, Father. That's not it at all. I spit on the soldiers and what they stand for. My feelings for Dominique have nothing to do with her white skin." He flattened his palm and pressed it against his chest. "They have to do with what I feel in here."
Again the chief nodded. Gall took a long pull on his pipe and closed his eyes as he thought back to long ago. Then he asked, "Are these feelings like those you had for Lame Fawn?"
Jacob expelled his breath in a low groan. He should have been expecting the question. It was honest enough, especially coming from the chief of the Hunkpapa. It was only natural that Gall would want to know if Jacob felt the same love for Dominique that he'd once had for the woman he'd taken as his wife. What was his answer?
