by Sharon Ihle
Delighted by his reaction and by the glazed look in his eyes, Dominique went on. "A is for Apache—"
"B is for buffalo hides," he cut in impatiently.
"And T is for tired," she said, ending the game. "I'm exhausted. I think I'll turn in early tonight."
Chapter Twenty-three
Fort Abraham Lincoln, Dakota Territory, February 20, 1877
Jacob paced back and forth in front of the window. He stopped long enough to cock his head toward the bedroom door and listen for a moment, and then he resumed his incessant marching.
"Damn, Stoltz," Barney complained. "Will you sit down? You're making me dizzy."
"I cannot. Something is wrong. The child should have been here hours ago."
"Give the poor gal a chance, Stoltz. She hasn't been in labor but a few hours. I think it takes a little longer for the first one."
Jacob halted again, this time bending down and staring out across the compound at the riverbanks. "Where is the doctor?" he complained. "He should have been here by now."
"You got to take it easy and relax, Stoltz. I'm telling you, you're just this side of wearing me out. Doc will get here when he's darn good and ready to get here." But Barney didn't believe those last words himself, knew the doctor wouldn't be in any big hurry to come back from town just to deliver a baby, the child of a private's wife, no less.
Using up his rapidly waning creativity, Barney tried once again to change the subject. "So what have you heard from the government? Anything new?"
Jacob stopped in midstride and drew his brows together. "The government? What do you mean?"
"About your job. What's the latest?"
"I believe you know the latest," Jacob grumbled as he resumed pacing.
"No, I don't think so. Fill me in. Have you got the job for sure?"
Jacob heaved an exasperated sigh and explained yet again. “You know I have. You know that after the spring thaw, when Dominique is able to travel, we will move on to the Red Cloud Agency at Yellow Medicine Creek. There I will become the Indian agent and Dominique will continue teaching English to the Sioux and others who will sign the treaty of peace. Do you understand this yet, or do I have to write it down for you?"
"I get it." Barney laughed. "It just feels so good to hear you talk about it. You and Dominique might really make a difference for them Indians, what with your uncanny instincts about 'em and the way those little savages flock to her. Maybe your dreams of peace aren't so farfetched after all."
"I hope to persuade the government to return the Black Hills to the Sioux. That would go a long way toward ensuring peace between the people of—"
A loud moan followed by Hazel's excited voice cut into his thoughts and through his head. Jacob stomped across the room, shouting, "That's it. I cannot take this any longer."
Barney watched, wide-eyed, then jumped to his feet when he realized Jacob's intent. "Wait, Stoltz. You can't go in there."
"I go where I must," he insisted, reaching for the doorknob. "I will not stand out here any longer and do nothing while my woman dies." He kicked the door open and barreled into the bedroom.
"Oh, my Lord," Hazel yelped as Jacob reached the bed. "You can't be in here. This is highly improper, terribly indecent at the very least. I must insist that you take your leave."
"Leave him be, Hazel," Dominique said, her voice strained even though she languished between contractions.
Jacob sank to his knees and leaned across the bed. Mopping her damp brow with his hand, he asked, "Is the child too big? Are you all right?"
"Everything is going as it should, Jacob. Please don't worry about me."
"But I heard you cry out in pain."
"Well, damn it all, Jacob, this hurts," she managed just as a new contraction loomed up from nowhere, first crushing her against the mattress, then lifting her as her back arched in agony.
Terrified, Jacob glanced at Hazel and shouted, "Do something, woman."
But before Hazel could say a word, Dominique turned on him, her voice hoarse and guttural. "Shut up and give me your hand, you nincompoop. I need you, Jacob. I need your strength."
Feeling utterly helpless, Jacob placed one hand on her brow and the other on her breast. Dominique laced her fingers around his wrist and began twisting and squeezing, pulling his flesh as she bore down in the final stages of labor.
"Push, honey," Hazel encouraged, no longer taking notice of the frantic soldier. "Come on. I can see the head. One more time, Dominique. Give it all you've got."
Jacob watched his woman, his wife according to both Sioux and white law, and squeezed back the tears that seemed to be a part of his life now. Please don't die, he said in a silent prayer just before he leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "I love you, wi witko. I'll always love you."
Then Jacob looked down in time to see his son slip out of his mother and into his rightful place in the world.
"Oh, Dominique," Hazel cried, "look at him. It's a beautiful little redheaded boy."
Still struggling to get her breathing under control, Dominique inclined her head, then collapsed against the pillow. "Jacob, did you see him? We have a son."
But Jacob was overcome with emotion, too shaken to form even the simplest of words. For the last four months he'd done nothing but worry about Dominique and love her. Never once in that time had he allowed himself even to think about the child, imagine it as a person, or wish for a son to carry on his name. Now that the child was here, now that physical proof of his union and the love he shared with Dominique rested inches from his big hands, he couldn't move, couldn't talk. He leaned his elbows against the mattress and stared, a stone man, as Hazel finished cleaning the infant, then placed him across his mother's abdomen.
"Look, Jacob," Dominique whispered, aware of her husband's turmoil. "He takes after his father."
Jacob's gaze followed the path of hers to their son's writhing body and the fully erect symbol of his sex. The baby howled his displeasure at the rude interruption in his life, then shot a stream of urine into the air.
Startled out of his trance, sprayed by the child as well, Jacob leaned back, his chest swelling with pride, and said, "Dominique, speak to this little nincompup. Tell him he must have respect for the man who will be his father."
"The little nincompup?" Hazel objected. "What kind of name is that to call a newborn baby?"
Dominique laughed and reclaimed her husband's hand.
Jacob grinned, his mouth lopsided, and said, "It is a good name. It means this child is a baby nincompoop."
Then he burst out laughing, joining his wife in hysterics as Hazel looked on, her eyebrows alternately rising and falling.
"Highly irregular, extremely indelicate," she muttered as she wrapped the baby in a quilt. "Nothing about this has been the least bit proper."
Lifting the infant from his mother's tummy, Hazel leaned over and placed him at her bosom. Tiny fingers groped for Dominique's breast, instinctively seeking the life-sustaining fluid within.
Hazel gasped, and tears sprang into the corners of her eyes as she observed mother and child. "Oh, my Lord, would you look at that."
Dominique studied her son, smoothing his damp hair, branding his scent into her memory, then looked back up at Hazel. "He's beautiful, isn't he?"
"Oh, my dear, he's much more than that. He's white. With that red hair and pale skin, no one will ever guess his father was a Sioux Indian. This is truly a day in which to give thanks."
Dominique exchanged a loving glance with her husband, both of them harboring a secret smile, then said to Hazel, "His skin may not be red, but always remember this: That white flesh is there only to protect the heart of a great Lakota warrior.''
*
Dear Reader;
Dakota Dream is the first book I ever published. Naturally, it’s very close to my heart. I got the idea for this novel while visiting North Dakota where my husband was born and raised. I was lucky enough to tour Custer’s beautiful home at Ft. Lincoln State Park, read the
books Libby wrote about her life with Custer, and learn a lot about the Lakota/Sioux Indian Tribe. Custer’s wife and the male relatives who died with him at Little Big Horn are actual characters. Everyone else is a figment of my imagination. I can’t tell you how much it meant to hold this book in published form in my hands for the first time. I hope reading it has given you at least a fraction of the pleasure.
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