by Sharon Ihle
Jacob lived. Not as her husband, not as the lover she ached to hold in her arms again. His life had been returned, continued, through a gift, a miracle of love. Jacob's fire still flickered, grew even larger within her womb.
Through a sudden rush of tears, of joy, Dominique stumbled backward, lurching in a half-circle as she tried to regain her footing, her composure. Jacob, oh, Jacob, did you know? Could you have guessed what you were leaving behind? Overcome by the surge of emotions, drowning in a sudden wave of love, Dominique reached out, searching blindly for her balance.
Libbie watched, terrified that her niece would fall face down in the street. She called to Barney as she hurried down the boardwalk. "Lieutenant! Lieutenant, quick, grab Nikki. She's going to faint."
In a daze of another kind now, Dominique barely noticed the strong arms supporting her or the dainty hands guiding her along the boardwalk to a bench. She sat when Libbie gently pushed her shoulders down, but she stared at the train, her eyes moist and trancelike.
"There, there, dear," Libbie comforted as she sat down beside her. "It's going to be all right. Someday it's just got to be all right again." Struggling to hold in her own tears, Libbie lifted her handkerchief and began to fan her niece.
Flushed with joy, blooming with the first bud of happiness she'd felt since her last night with Jacob, Dominique allowed her lashes to flutter down on her florid cheeks.
Alarmed, Libbie looked up at Barney. "Well, don't just stand there, Lieutenant. Quick, go get a glass of water. Hurry."
Then she turned back to her niece and tried to put her own pain aside. "There, there you poor dear. Don't let your grief or the horrible memories of your time as a captive overcome you. You must be strong. Autie would want it that way."
The sound of Libbie's voice, the words she knew must be terribly painful for her to speak, brought Dominique out of her trance. "Oh, Aunt Libbie, please don't worry about me. It's not that I'm so upset or that—"
She cut off her own words as she realized what she'd been about to say. How could she possibly tell Libbie about Jacob, about her love for the man she also called Redfoot? Her aunt would never understand. Dominique had no one with whom to share this moment of joy. She would have to hide her happiness at discovering the knowledge of her destiny, the newfound purpose in her life. Now that existence, her future, would include the birth of Jacob's child, she thought, suddenly radiant. She could go on with her life, fulfill this obligation lovingly, and perhaps deliver a special message as well. How could she ever explain what she must do now to her family?
She needed more time to think. Dominique's head slumped and her eyes closed as she feigned another dizzy spell.
"Oh, please, Nikki," Libbie begged. "Hang on. Be strong." She turned her head, peering around the corner, and muttered, "Where is the lieutenant with your water?"
Prepared now, Dominique straightened her shoulders. "I'm all right, really I am. It's just that I've finally realized I can't leave here. I can't go home with you."
"What? But of course you can. You have to, dear."
Again she hesitated, more sure than ever what she must do, still uncertain exactly how to do it. Finally settling on a half-truth, Dominique worked to produce the necessary distress in her voice. "We haven't talked about this before, but while I was a captive in the Hunkpapa village, certain things happened to me, things that need to be discussed."
"No, Nikki." Libbie pressed a finger to her niece's mouth. "I understand these savages practice unspeakable abominations on white women. There is no need for us to discuss this. I've taken it for granted that you were badly used. It's best if you try to forget it."
"That's not possible," she answered with heavy innuendo in her tone. "We have to talk about it. You need to know that I was the woman of a warrior called Redfoot."
Color flooded Libbie's cheeks. She lowered her voice, insisting, "We don't have to discuss this, either, nor shall we. If these things still trouble you after we get back home, there are doctors who can help you get over it. Until then, you must try to put that degrading experience out of your mind."
"Putting it out of my mind isn't the problem, Aunt Libbie." Dominique took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. "Putting it out of my body is."
Libbie screwed up her brow. "I don't follow you, dear."
Dominique expelled the breath and came right out with it. "Things haven't been normal with my body since I was kidnapped. I've been feeling ill and bloated. I thought it was because of, you know, all the changes and terrible things that happened, but— Oh, Aunt Libbie, I'm going to have Redfoot's baby."
Libbie's head wobbled, and her breathing became rapid and shallow. When her eyes rolled to the back of her head, then closed, Dominique snatched the hanky from her hand and began to fan her brow.
Barney barreled around the corner at that moment, offering the expected glass of water. "Here is it, Mrs. Custer. Sorry it took so long." His tongue froze to the roof of his mouth as he studied the women.
"Thanks, Barney," Dominique said as she accepted the offering.
"Ah, you're welcome," he said slowly, scratching his head. "I'll just go finish ..." He let his words trail off as he backed down the boardwalk, a look of utter confusion flickering in his expression, "The water you ... she ... I'll just go get the luggage."
A smile tugging at her heartstrings, Dominique lifted the glass to her aunt's mouth. "Take a drink of this," she encouraged.
Libbie gulped greedily, then sat up, waving Dominique and the glass off. "I'm all right. It's just so hot today, and I'm a little ..." She turned and looked into her niece's eyes, and her own filled with tears. "It's so awful!" she burst out. "So unfair. I'd give anything to be in that way, to have that much of my husband to keep with me always, but instead some stinking savage has—has—"
"Please stop it," Dominique said, knowing exactly how Libbie felt, wishing not for their roles to be reversed, but that they could both be filled with the same joy.
"I'm sorry, dear," Libbie finally said, regaining her fragile control. "Of course, I don't mean to suggest this is your fault in any way or that there was anything you could have done to prevent these circumstances. It's just all so unfortunate."
"As unfortunate as it may be, it's a fact," Dominique went on, eager to end the increasingly uncomfortable conversation. "But now, at least, you understand why I can't go home. Why I can probably never go home."
But Libbie didn't agree. She patted her hand and said, "Now, now, dear. It's not as bad as it seems. After all, your condition is not entirely irreversible."
"Aunt Libbie?" Dominique breathed as pinpricks of foreboding stabbed at her scalp. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. There are several chemicals, aloes and cathartic powders, we can obtain fairly easily. If that should fail, we can probably find a doctor willing to help you."
"No." Dominique jumped to her feet, horrified at the thought of losing Jacob's child. "You're talking about a miscarriage, about taking my baby away from me. I won't let you do it. I won't let anyone do it."
"Nikki," Libbie whispered between clenched teeth. "Sit down. You'll cause a commotion."
Dominique glanced around, then took a seat several feet away from her aunt. "I won't do it," she insisted. "You can't make me do it."
"All right." Libbie shushed her, waving her hands. "Just think about it, then. You'll come to your senses when you're not so overwrought."
"I am not overwrought. I'm pregnant."
"Nikki. Such language," she said, louder than intended. "I must insist you get hold of yourself. You still have the Custer name to uphold. Please don't dishonor it with such talk, and don't even think of staining it by bearing the child of a savage."
Dominique's mind suddenly became that serene spot in the ocean at the eye of a storm. She moved closer to her aunt and folded her hand in hers. "I appreciate and understand your concerns, really I do, but the child is mine, too. This baby carries Custer blood as well as its father's. I can't bring an
y harm to it."
"Oh, Nikki," Libbie cried, weeping for herself as much for as her niece. "You simply can't have this child. Whatever will you do? How can you possibly face your peers?"
"I lived with the Sioux, remember?" she said with a smile. "I can face anything. Here." Dominique returned her hanky. "Don't cry for me. I'll be all right."
"But how can you be?"
"All aboard," the conductor hollered. “Board."
"Oh, dear," Libbie sniffed. "We'll talk about this later. Come on, Nikki. We have to go now."
Dominique rose and walked down the boardwalk with her aunt, explaining as they neared the passenger cars, "I meant what I said. I can't go back home with you. Not now, anyway. Please give papa my love and tell him I'll write the first chance I get."
"But you have to return with me. Where will you go? How will you live?"
"I've been thinking about that." Her smile secret, manipulative, Dominique turned and watched Barney approach with their luggage. When he set the trunks down, she gave him a broad grin. "Thanks, Lieutenant."
"You're welcome, Miss DuBois. It's great to see you looking like yourself again before you leave."
"Oh, I'm not leaving. In fact, I'm hoping you and Mrs. Woodhouse won't mind some company just until I can get a place of my own, you understand."
"Huh?"
"Oh, I realize you two are on your honeymoon, so to speak, but I promise not to be in the way too much. I'll just be a little mouse in the cupboard until I can sweet-talk a few of the soldiers into building a little place for me."
"Well, I don't know. That may be against the rules, and jeez, Miss DuBois, I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything, Barney. I think I can still get what I want from the soldiers, at least for a couple more months anyway," she added, laughing to herself. "Are the Indian scouts still living at the fort?"
"Well, sure."
"And don't they have families, children?"
Barney scratched his head. "Course."
Explaining to both her aunt and the confused soldier, she said, "During my stay with the Sioux, I discovered that despite the language barrier, I was able to work with the little ones, teaching them art and even some English. I'll wager the army wouldn't mind putting up a little house for the new schoolmarm. What do you think?"
Barney shrugged. Libbie dabbed at a final tear.
"Well," Dominique went on, undaunted. "Even if they're not convinced at first, I believe they will be. I think it's about time everyone knew what these treaties say. Maybe next time the Sioux come to the bargaining table, they'll have some idea of what they're gaining and what they're giving away."
"Last call," the conductor warned. "Board."
"Oh, dear, oh, dear me," Libbie fretted, filled with indecision.
"Come on, Aunt Libbie. You'd better get on that train before we both miss it."
"I don't know, Nikki, I just don't know if I should leave you here like this. What will your father say? He expects us to come back home together. And what about the danger you'll face? I just don't know."
"Barney and Hazel are going to take care of me." She whirled around, "Aren't you, Barney? Tell my aunt she doesn't have a thing to worry about.''
Barney chewed on his lips, not sure where his allegiance should lie or what Hazel would say. He finally shrugged and said, "Well, sure, I don't see why the missus and I can't take care of her a bit if she just has to stay on. I wouldn't worry none about her, Mrs. Custer. We'll make sure she's all right."
"Oh, I just don't know." Libbie wrung her hanky, twisting the fancy lace into little knots.
With an affectionate smile, Dominique leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Good-bye, Aunt Libbie. Be sure to give my love to Papa and Grandpa Custer." Then she pushed her up the steps and into the railroad car.
Dominique and Barney stood looking for Libbie's face to appear in a window, and then waved as the stricken features of the general's widow appeared.
When the train finally began its journey east, Dominique started making plans. "Now, then," she said, taking Barney's arm. "Don't you think I could use Hazel's sewing room as my bedroom for a couple of weeks? It shouldn't take a couple of big strong soldiers more than a week or so to put a small house together for me, should it?"
As they strolled toward the buggy, she continued. "I thought just two rooms would suffice. I want my bedroom to be private, but I think the kitchen and living room can all be rolled into one. After all, what's a single girl going to do with more room than that? Barney? What do you think about a fireplace? Will a cook stove be enough for heat? Barney ...?"
Several weeks later, still deep in the Bighorn Mountains, Jacob heard the calls of wild geese overhead. His mind began to return in bits and pieces. His body, vague, still detached from his brain somehow, rested in a great warm nest of quiet pain.
Where was he? What had happened to him? He thought of Dominique, of clouds of hair the color of maize at sunset, and he was content. Slowly, languidly, he pieced together his memories of the short time she'd been his. With sudden clarity, he remembered their last afternoon together. She'd brazenly straddled his hips and stared down at him, her expression lusty and wanton. How different she was that day from the nervous young woman on the night they'd become one, how brave, how bold.
Or was she so different? he suddenly wondered. He thought back to long ago, to the night he'd brought life back to her frozen limbs. How brave she'd been then, how bold as she spit in his face and kicked at his crotch. Jacob laughed out loud, then groaned as twin arrows of pain shot into his ribs.
A woman's voice, tender and full of concern, hummed to him. Soft hands stroked his brow. Jacob reached up, encircling the small wrist, and said, "Dominique?"
"It is I, Spotted Feather. Have you awakened from your deep sleep, Redfoot?"
Jacob released her, then gradually inched his eyelids open. The sun was low, shuttered in shades of tangerine and persimmon through ribbons of wispy white clouds. He managed to keep his eyes open long enough to adjust to the light, then glanced up at the woman.
"What has happened? Where am I?"
"You recover from terrible wounds, Redfoot. You rest in the big mountains with a small band of our people. You will live."
She reached for his brow again, but he caught her wrist and said, "Where is Dominique?"
Spotted Feather jerked her hand away and sat back on her haunches. "She is where she belongs with the Long Knives. It is I who have cared for you, not the crazy one.''
"I thank you for your trouble, woman. Now, tell me, is our father here, too?"
"Yes. He waits for your mind to return."
"Then go fetch him and say that I must talk to him."
The berry-skinned woman got to her feet, grumbling to herself, then stomped over a small hill and out of sight.
Jacob closed his eyes and waited. Dominique was safe and well, he thought with a sigh of relief. Unlike her foolish uncle, she was most likely on her way back to Fort Lincoln by now, and then onto where? Would she wait for him to seek her out? Or blame him for the slaughter of her family members?
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Jacob opened his eyes again, this time without pain, and saw his father sink cross-legged into the grass beside him.
"Spotted Feather tells me you have decided to join us at last," Gall said, his voice low and tight.
Jacob drew his brows together, noticing the new grooves at the corners of the chief's eyes, the deep anguish buried in their centers, and said, "How long have I slept?"
"Since the great war of the Greasy Grass, two moons have passed."
"Two moons?" Jacob abruptly sat up, the jolt of pain following him and snapping inside his head like the crack of some giant whip.
"Lie down, son. You are not yet well."
But Jacob forced himself to remain sitting, rode each new wave of pain as if he were breaking a wild pony, until the pounding in his head became a dull ache he could manage. How could he have been unaware of
his own existence for so many weeks? he wondered. Could he hope even in his wildest dreams that Dominique still waited for him?
Jacob groaned as that terrible Sunday returned to his memory. He saw the hundreds of bodies strewn across the slopes of the Little Bighorn Valley, remembered the face of the general as he lay staring up at the sky for all eternity, and called up a hazy recollection of the Cheyenne warrior who mistook him for the enemy.
His heart heavy, he said, "I remember many dead soldiers that day. What of our people?"
Gall shrugged. "We lost some warriors, but it was a day of victory for the Lakota. A day the Long Knives will not soon forget."
"From what I saw," Jacob said, unable to hide the disgust in his voice; "you did not leave anyone to remember."
