by Tess LeSue
Oh, he liked her well enough in bed. But what did that mean? Men liked to play in bed. It was out of bed where you learned how a man really felt about you.
“Come on, Cleopatra, no brooding today. Today we’re going to watch the competitions.” He pulled her out of the teepee and into the sunshine. “And then we’ll get your things and bring them back here.”
Ava pushed all her broody thoughts aside and followed him out of the sprawling camps and onto the prairie beyond, where the younger warriors were staging horse races and competitions that included knife throwing, archery, ax tossing and wrestling. Flocked in chatty groups around the men were young women from all the tribes, preening and flirting, looking for husbands.
“You can’t be serious?” a horrified voice broke into Ava’s thoughts, and she turned to see a warrior in a heavily beaded and quilled tunic. His hair had been braided into an ornate style, the ends of his braids wrapped in rabbit fur and the fringe teased above his face. “That redhead had better not be who I think it is,” the stranger snapped, glaring at Ava. “I heard she was here.”
Ava had never seen him before, but he seemed to know her. And he didn’t like her one bit.
“Are you mad?” the warrior railed at Deathrider in perfect English. “I mean, I knew you were, but I never thought you were this mad.”
“Ava,” Deathrider said calmly, “this is my friend Micah. Who appears to be out courting.” He looked Micah up and down. “I can only assume your mother made you wear this.”
“Ava . . . ?” Deathrider’s friend put his hands on his hips and gave a disbelieving laugh, his head nodding up and down in numb astonishment. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Should I leave you two alone?” Ava asked, taking a cautious step back. He was a big warrior, and he looked mighty angry.
“Lady, you should have left us alone a long time ago.” He turned his anger on Ava. Deathrider stepped quickly between them.
“She’s not what you think,” he soothed his angry friend, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace.
Micah gave a bitter laugh. “She’s exactly what I think. How in the hell can you bring her here after everything that happened last year? Pete Hamble almost got me lynched.”
Ava gasped as something clicked. This was Deathrider’s friend, the one who’d left him in the desert.
“You left him to die!” she said furiously.
“What?” Micah blinked at her, shocked.
“How dare you rage at me when you’re the one who blinded him and left him to die in the desert? I’m the one who saved him.” Ava pushed Deathrider out of her way. She could fight her own battles.
“The hell you are,” Micah growled. “You’re the reason he was in the desert in the first place. And for the record, lady, I didn’t leave him. That maniac Pete Hamble dragged me off.”
“What?” Ava frowned.
“That’s right, lady. Hamble was going to march me right into San Francisco and hand them my head. He’s the one who left Nate to die in the desert, not me. And he did that because of you.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” Ava accused Deathrider. “Why didn’t you tell me Pete Hamble had your friend?”
“Because you were his enemy, you madwoman,” Micah snapped at her. “As soon as he could see again, he came and got me.”
Ava was having the oddest sensation of double vision. It was like being two people at once. She could remember clearly how it felt to be in the desert with Nathaniel, when she thought he was an Apache; she could see him in her mind’s eye, weak, battered and blind. But then she felt all the swirling lust and happiness and . . . oh, Jesus wept, surely not . . . love of the past few days . . . and she struggled to make the Apache and Deathrider come together in her head as the same person.
It was all so confusing.
He’d been Deathrider all along. That was hard enough to understand, but now to learn that the whole time she’d known him, he’d been trying to rescue his friend . . . She remembered their struggle to find water, his fevers, his compliance when Voss had kidnapped them, his further compliance when Becky and Lord Whatsit had kidnapped them. . . . The whole time he’d been trying to get closer to Hamble so he could save Micah.
“That’s why you left me at Señora Torres’s,” she said numbly.
“She’s not what you think, Micah,” Deathrider told his friend again. He put his hand on Micah’s shoulder.
“She is, you idiot.” Micah shook his hand off. “Think about all the years we’ve been through hell because of her. Think of the times we’ve had to run. Think of the gunslingers. Think of all of it. Because of her and those stupid books. That damn Hunt is still on, and here you are mooning over the woman behind it all.”
“I’m not mooning,” Deathrider snapped.
“Don’t let her pretty face fool you,” Micah warned. “I guarantee she’s only with you for the story. You just wait. In a year or so, there’ll be a book about all this.” He flung his hand out at the vivid scene behind them. “The Gathering of Bloody Fools Who Let a Redheaded Viper into Their Midst.”
“She apologized, Micah,” Deathrider told him. “She’s sorry.”
“Is she?” Micah was steely with disbelief. “That’s nice. I’m sure she’ll be sorry again after the next book comes out. And the one after that.” He shook his head. “I want nothing to do with her. Once she’s ripped your heart out and used the blood to write her next book, you’ll see that I was right.”
They watched him go, stalking off into the crowd. Ava felt shaken.
“Do you mind if we don’t watch the competitions?” she asked. “I might just go back and pack my things . . .” She searched his face. “If you still want me to come . . .”
He nodded, but he was looking tense. “Of course.”
They were silent as they headed for the fort. And he didn’t hold her hand.
30
ON MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, the treaty ceremony drew the negotiations to a close. Deathrider remembered the date, because it was also the day that he discovered Micah had been right. He should never have trusted Ava Archer.
Things hadn’t been easy between them since they’d run into Micah, but when Deathrider actually stopped to think about it, when had it ever been easy between him and Ava Archer? Sex didn’t erase the past. Just because she drove him wild didn’t mean there weren’t years of bad blood between them.
Micah had made him nervous, raking up the past like that; Deathrider had fallen headlong into a love affair with a woman who had wreaked havoc on his life, and it made no sense when you stood back and looked at it. The shock on Micah’s face had sent a cold arrow into Deathrider’s heart.
He’d trusted Ava for no other reason than he wanted to. Because he wanted her. But what had she done to earn his trust, really?
Nothing.
The thoughts tumbled through his head as they’d moved her into the teepee, and he felt himself withdrawing from her, watching her carefully. Suspiciously. Who was she, this woman? Was she Cleopatra, the softhearted, sharp-tongued woman who’d saved him from thirst, from Voss, from death? Or was she A.A. Archer, the merciless author of bald-faced lies about him? Or was she someone else entirely?
He was so confused.
His father clearly picked up on his mood, because he stopped hinting at marriage. They rode together to Horse Creek, where the treaty ceremony was to occur, flanked by the other warriors of their tribe. Ava wasn’t with them; she wasn’t one of them. She was riding along with the other whites, the only one not in uniform or heavily armed.
The clearing by Horse Creek was the only place big enough to hold everyone: man, woman and child. When the tribes had gathered in a circle, Deathrider found he had a clear view of Ava. As he watched her, he felt a chill. She was pulling something from the pocket of her riding skirt.
A notebook.
His
blood turned cold as he watched her open it to a fresh page, lick the tip of a pencil and start taking notes. There was a lot to take in, and she wrote furiously.
Micah had been right. . . .
The treaty ceremonies began with every nation performing as part of the welcoming ceremony. When their turn came, the Arapaho sang as one nation, but Deathrider struggled to find his voice. He was fixated on the way her pencil danced over page after page of her notebook, recording every tiny detail. . . .
She’d never said she wasn’t writing another book, he realized numbly. . . .
After all, why else was she in Fort Laramie in the first place? His stomach fell. How had that never occurred to him before? Why else would she be here? Why hadn’t he questioned it? He’d seen her that day at the fort and lost his goddamn mind. Grinning witlessly at her, falling into bed with her . . . never once thinking to ask why she was here.
Micah was right. She was here to write a book about the treaty. About the greatest gathering of Indians in the history of the nations.
And she’d lucked into a bonus story by finding Deathrider. . . .
He burned with rage. He was a fool. Worse than a fool. He’d never felt so humiliated in all his life.
Two Bears was giving him a concerned look. Deathrider realized he’d stopped singing. He lifted his voice, throwing the weight of his rage into the song. Damn her, and damn these whites. They all knew this treaty was nothing but a show.
The Cheyenne display suited Deathrider’s mood more than his own people’s song had. Their Dog Soldiers tore into the center of the circle, in war paint and mounted on their horses. The animals had been dusted and decorated with ribbons, with red ocher symbols painted on their flanks to show off their coups. The Dog Soldiers put on a terrifying show; their cavalry put the whites to shame.
Deathrider saw the colonel’s face drain of color. The Cheyenne weren’t even the most terrifying soldiers here today—that honor went to the Lakota, who had beaten these Dog Soldiers scores of times. Ava hadn’t paled, Deathrider saw; in fact, she was scribbling faster than ever.
Once the welcome ceremonies had drawn to a close, Broken Hand stood in the center of the circle, introducing the nations to the superintendent, Colonel Mitchell. Broken Hand looked nervous. As well he might.
Deathrider saw Red Cloud at the head of the Oglála Lakota. He was brooding as he listened to Colonel Mitchell offer “restitution.”
“What does he mean?” Two Bears asked Deathrider quietly. There was similar muttering around the first circle of warriors.
“He’ll give us gifts because the wagoners have eaten our buffalo and let their animals eat all our grasslands.”
“Restitution means gifts,” he heard his father murmur to the others.
Gifts. Deathrider was scornful as Mitchell listed the foodstuffs, farming equipment, livestock and hardware.
“And this will not be a one-off gift,” Mitchell told them, talking to them all like they were children. “This will be paid every year.”
“Is he simple?” Two Bears asked Deathrider.
“In exchange for these yearly gifts,” Mitchell continued, “you will allow white travelers rights of passage across your lands.”
Here it came. The sting in the tail. Deathrider stole a glance at Ava. She was in the act of pulling a second notebook from her pocket. He felt a lick of hate.
“You will also allow us to erect way stations along the trail, for the white travelers,” Mitchell continued. “In return we will help you to define your own borders. Sovereign boundaries. And then we will help you to learn to respect those boundaries.”
“Can you call it a gift if you expect things in return?” Two Bears said mildly.
“Civilization is upon you,” Mitchell declared, “whether you like it or not. And civilization means the cessation of wholesale slaughter and warfare. You must stop killing one another.”
Most of the tribes didn’t speak English, so interpreters were translating Mitchell’s speech, and whispers spread through the crowd as the meaning of his words sank in.
Red Cloud was stone-faced. In the conferrals Deathrider had attended, Red Cloud had been vocal that the whites were liars who were not to be trusted. Deathrider’s gaze went to Ava again.
“They will do to us like they did to the peoples beyond the Mississippi,” Red Cloud had said dismissively. “Put us in one of those ‘Indian Territories.’ Living like starving dogs.”
“In exchange for our gifts,” Mitchell said in closing, “we expect you to nominate one headman, who will speak for all of you.”
That was when Deathrider recognized the whole affair for the farce it was. It would be impossible for these diverse and fractious nations to elect one man to represent all of them. He could see the incomprehension in the faces of the Lakota and on the faces of his own people. The whites didn’t understand his people. Or any of the other nations gathered here today.
The clannish Lakota would never agree to this treaty. Red Cloud had come only to gauge his enemies and to take the gifts. He would play along and then do exactly as he pleased.
“If you cannot elect a headman, we will choose one for you,” Mitchell told the murmuring crowd. Deathrider saw the dragoons were growing nervous and were fingering their weapons. It was time to end this nonsense.
But they couldn’t. Because the “gifts” were still en route. They had days to kill.
“What are you going to do?” Deathrider asked his father as they left the Horse Creek site.
“The same as everybody else,” Two Bears said. “Talk endless circles, watch the competitions, take their gifts and then go home.”
“Are you going to sign the treaty?”
“Does it matter?” Two Bears said philosophically.
* * *
• • •
DEATHRIDER MADE IT back to the teepee before Ava. He was agitated, his mind racing. You just wait. In a year or so, there’ll be a book about all this . . .
Why had he thought she had stopped writing? She’d never said she had. . . .
His gaze drifted to her belongings. She’d been scribbling in those notebooks. . . . Were there more notebooks in there . . . ? Did they contain the seeds of future books? Hell, did she have manuscripts in there? Books written about him?
She’d certainly have a lot of material by now. . . . The urge to look was almost too strong to bear. He’d never violated anyone’s privacy before and wasn’t about to start now.
But then his mind flooded with those dime novels she’d written over the years. The stories of rape and murder, of kidnapping and drinking blood. His heart thundered in his ears, and a red fog rolled through him. She’d ruined his damn life; she’d risked the lives of his friends, and she’d still been out there today, scribbling away in that damn notebook.
And against all his better judgment, he gave into his raging curiosity and went through her belongings. Even though he’d been afraid of what he’d find, he was shocked by the extent of it.
Manuscripts. Lots of them. More books to be, with the name A.A. Archer scrawled across the top in a confident slashing hand.
She came in as he pulled another manuscript from her bags and threw it on a teetering pile.
“What are you doing?” The color had drained from her face. As well it might.
He stood.
She took a step back. “It’s not what it looks like,” she said.
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. “I want you out of here by the time I get back,” he told her flatly.
“You don’t understand.”
“I think I do. I want you out.”
She grabbed his arm. “Please, Nathaniel.”
“My name is Rides with Death,” he growled, shaking her off. “Not White Wolf, not the Plague of the West and not any of those other lies you peddle. I have no interest in being yo
ur specimen.”
“I never . . .” She caught herself. “No, I did. I know I did. And I’m sorry for it. Desperately sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” He was so angry, he felt like hitting things. Like ripping the teepee apart from its poles. “If you were sorry, you wouldn’t still be doing it.”
“I’m not!”
Unable to believe that she’d dare utter such a bald-faced lie, he pointed to the manuscripts.
“None of that is made-up!” she told him. He was disgusted to see her defending that rubbish. She was just like Mitchell this afternoon, standing there lying to their faces. “I won’t make the same mistakes again,” Ava begged. “I promise you.”
He couldn’t stay. He wouldn’t be able to hold his temper in check.
“We have different ideas of what that mistake was,” he snapped. “You seem to think it’s what you write, but as far as I can see, everything you write is poison.”
“Stop,” she said furiously, blocking his way as he tried to leave. “Maybe I’ve made mistakes, huge mistakes, but I own them. And I’m trying to do better. But if you love me, you have to love all of me. These books are part of who I am, for better or for worse.” She held her chin high, her eyes glittering with tears.
He recoiled. Her words ripped something open inside of him, something painful. “I never said I loved you.”
She staggered, as though he’d hit her. If he’d thought she was pale before, now she was positively bloodless. Her chin lifted even higher, and she gave him a brittle, regal look of disdain. “No,” she said. Her voice was flat and cold. “I guess you didn’t.” Silently, she gathered her belongings, cramming the manuscripts back in her bag.
Except for one. That one she dropped on the furs, where they’d woken just this morning, tangled in each other’s arms.
“Read it,” she suggested tightly. And then she left.
He wasn’t going to read the goddamn thing. He picked it up and threw it against the hide shell of the teepee.
