by Karen Kay
In truth, Suzette was embarrassed, and with good reason. The smell of horseflesh—and perhaps unwashed bodies—wafted through the air. And she, sitting here so primly beside her fiancé, who was a fine young man, wondered what she was to do. A proper young lady, especially one who was to become the wife of the Earl of Lankersheim, was not supposed to acknowledge the rank odor of horse manure, stables and worse, was she?
Suzette frowned. Leave it to Irena to put her granddaughter in such a position. Alas, Suzette feared that Irena did not approve of her granddaughter’s engagement. Although why this was so was a mystery to Suzette.
But Suzette ignored her grandmother’s opinion. It was a wonderful piece of luck that the earl wanted to marry her rather than use her in return for furthering her career, which was the fate of most opera singers.
Suzette, the daughter of opera stars John and Beatrice Joselyn, had always looked upon the practice of entertaining rich young men as…well, as distasteful. Of course, she realized it was sometimes a necessary part of the business. Very few prima donnas attained their position without compromising their virtue. But having grown up with such as a custom, having witnessed the sordidness that attached itself to the business in general, she had long ago decided this sort of life was not for her.
She craved love, she craved position and respect within British society, she craved a family, she craved…
Blare-e-e-e!
What was that sound? Looking around, she recognized the problem at once. She rolled her eyes and sighed.
A twenty-piece brass band had materialized across the arena. Complete with trumpets, trombones, bass and drums, the band was only beginning to bellow out the strains of a loud marching song.
Dear Lord, could their music be any more vulgar?
“I say.” William Blair, Earl of Lankersheim and Suzette’s fiancé, leaned in toward her. “It’s not exactly operatic music, now, is it?”
“Indeed not.” Suzette wrinkled her nose.
When Suzette turned to speak to Irena, she discovered her grandmother was gone.
Spinning back toward her fiancé, Suzette asked, “Pray, did you see when Irena left?”
“Doubtlessly, I did.” Taking hold of Suzette’s gloved hand, he patted it as a parent might do when scolding a child. “I do wish you would call your grandmother by her proper title, darling. She is, after all, your grandmother.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Suzette said, though she frowned at her fiancé and retrieved her white-gloved hand.
“Oh, and now I’ve upset you,” commented the earl.
“In truth, you have not,” Suzette lied. “I am simply wondering where Iren—where she went.”
“Darling, I know she raised you under unconventional circumstances, and the two of you like to call one another by your given names. It’s not for me that I mind. It’s only that when we are in public, to address her as… And then there is my mother…”
“Yes, yes, you are right, of course,” Suzette agreed meekly enough, although she went on to say, “Heaven forbid someone think the wrong thing.”
“Now, now. Let’s not be sarcastic. I must think of my position, after all.”
Suzette smiled. “I know you must, William, and I am not annoyed with you for reminding me of it.” Again, she lied. “It is only that Iren—my grandmother should not be roaming around this Wild West Show alone. You know how she is, what might happen.”
“She is a grown woman, after all.”
“Yes, but… Have you never noticed that trouble seems to seek her out?”
“No, my dear, I have not.”
She stared at William for some moments, admiring his handsome face, which was alight with tolerance. In his eyes was a gleam of admiration for her.
At last Suzette smiled. “You are right. It is wrong of me to worry about her. She is a grown woman and capable of handling herself, and yet—”
“Oh, look there! Is that Buffalo Bill, himself?”
Dutifully, Suzette gazed down into the arena. “It does look as though it is he.”
“And who is that off to the side, there? I daresay, is that—?”
Suzette gasped. “Irena! Oh, William, I must go down there.”
“Calm down, darling, I’m certain she is fine. Maybe she will sing the first song of the season so the performance can begin.”
Suzette closed her eyes and prayed.
As it turned out, William was right. Apparently, Irena was going to sing.
After a short introduction by Buffalo Bill himself, Irena stepped up to the platform, which was set in front of the band. She even opened her mouth as though to sing the American national anthem, but instead of a melody, her speaking voice rang out loud and strong. “I would like to dedicate this beautiful work I am about to sing to my granddaughter, Suzette Joselyn, and to her fiancé, William Blair, the Earl of Lankersheim.”
To Suzette’s complete mortification, Irena began to sing the opening stanza of Henry Purcell’s “Dido’s Lament”, an aria of death and of love betrayed. She might as well have been singing a funeral march.
William’s complexion turned pink. However, he laughed. Suzette, on the other hand, knew her face had to be a bright shade of red.
Oh, to find a hole and sink into it…
“Darling, be fair,” said William. “Your grandmother is older. She’s eccentric. She has a right to live her life as she has always lived it.”
“Not when it influences me…and you. And she’s not really that old.”
“Suzette, I, for one, am not upset.”
“But I am.”
William placed his hand over hers. “There, there. I am certain she will come to like me in time.”
“That is very kind of you.” But truth be told, Suzette was too annoyed to take pleasure in William’s comfort. “I must go down there, for I am going to talk to her. Now. Would you like to accompany me?”
William gazed at the arena, where the Indians were only beginning to enter in single file. All were dancing. All were dressed in the most colorful display of feathers, buckskins and beads Suzette had ever seen.
“Of course I will accompany you.”
Suzette sensed William’s reluctance. He wanted to stay and watch the show.
She smiled at him. “No, you needn’t come with me. I understand. When is the next time you will be able to witness a spectacle like this? Pray, be at your ease. I will go and find Irena, and we will both be back here soon.”
“Yes, my precious.” William grinned at her and patted her hand. “Do not scold her overly much, though. Remember, she is older.”
“I will consider it.” Suzette accepted William’s hand to help her up, and clasping hold of her skirts, she picked her way through the crowd.
Chapter Three
Black Lion awoke with a start. Had he overslept?
It appeared he had; the signs were not good. Sunlight poured in overhead from the ear-flaps of the canvas tepee, and glancing up through the lodge poles, Black Lion caught sight of the sun, which was already positioned mid-sky.
What had caused him to oversleep? And this on a day when he had been cautioned to arrive for the performance in a timely manner. Needing to pull on his jeans over his naked body, he had no more than stepped foot into them when he remembered he was supposed to be attired in traditional dress.
“Damn.” He uttered the white man’s word.
Tossing his jeans to the side, Black Lion grabbed hold of a breechcloth lying on the floor, stretching the softened leather through his legs and tying the long string securely around his waist. Sliding his feet lightly into his moccasins, he decided he wouldn’t bother with leggings today—the kind of riding he was doing was traditionally done naked anyway.
The Long-haired Show Man—Buffalo Bill—might have things to say to him later, but Black Lion couldn’t consider that
now.
He grabbed his quiver full of arrows—mere sticks with rubber tips, since they were now minus the traditional bone arrowhead—and his bow. Then he heard feminine laughter outside the tepee.
Black Lion shook his head as though the simple action might serve to enlighten him. What was wrong with these European women that they followed him? Why did they wait for him? Touch him? Ask for his autograph?
Sighing, he realized he was doomed. Not only would he be unable to hurry to the arena as was needed, he was going to have to humor these females. That or face a dressing-down if one of them complained.
And this would never do, not when he acted in his friend’s stead.
Accepting his fate, Black Lion seized hold of his headdress, as well as his shield, and stepped out of the lodge. Frowning, he inhaled the moisture-laden air as he quickly counted the number of women in his audience. At least there were only fifteen this time. Last night there had been more than fifty.
Giggles sounded around him. “May I have your autograph?” asked one of them.
He smiled at the girl. “For twenty-five bucks.” He uttered the words good-humoredly, however, for he accepted the young lady’s pen and paper without further argument.
“My parents have given me permission to ask you if you would like to join us for dinner this evening,” said another one of the women as Black Lion attempted to scribble out his name—although it wasn’t his name, it was his friend Two Bears’s name.
Black Lion nodded at the golden-haired, pretty and immaculately dressed girl. In truth, if duty were not so heavy on his shoulders, he would have liked nothing better than to spend more time in this young lady’s presence. But he could not. Not only was he a man haunted by a responsibility to his people, he was also here representing his friend Two Bears, who was married.
“Stop it, Sadie, I wanted to ask him.” The owner of that voice pushed in toward him. “Maybe you could come to see me tomorrow?”
He breathed out another deep lament. Here before him was yet another beauty. Black Lion jerked his chin to the left—a Lakota gentleman’s gesture—and grinned first at one of them, then at the other woman. “I would like nothing better than to get to know you all,” he admitted. “Alas, I cannot.”
“Why can you not?” came several voices all at once.
“Because I have work to do and because—”
“I…be jealous.” The voice was low, feminine and came from behind him.
Looking around, Black Lion recognized the wife of Running Fox, a fellow Hunkpapa tribal member. He smiled at this woman whom he knew to be called Little Star.
Meanwhile, the giggling of those surrounding him had stopped. Each of the beautiful young women was staring at the speaker.
“I…often jealous of…women,” Little Star stated, “who ask…husband to dinner.” It did not escape Black Lion’s notice that Little Star omitted saying exactly who her husband was.
“I didn’t know you were married,” observed one young lady.
“I didn’t either,” chipped in another.
“Nor I.”
“Sorry,” voiced Black Lion simply. “But Buffalo Bill rarely hires an American Indian man who is not married.” He cast Little Star a quick wink as well as a grateful smile. Little Star nodded. “And now,” said Black Lion to the girls at large, “I must leave you. I am late for my performance.”
Without a backward glance, he struck off toward the livery.
Once he was far enough away from the women, he didn’t waste another moment, but ran as though he were in a race, bolting over anything in his way, which included a rather large hitching post, as well as several mud holes.
“Where’s Ranckles?” he asked Old Doe, the man who attended to the animals.
“Son, you’re late,” the old-timer remarked.
“I know,” panted Black Lion, barely catching his breath. “I must hurry.”
“He’s over there in the stall. He’s saddled.” Old Doe winked.
“Thank you, Grandfather. I will honor you for this.”
“Honor? Forget about the honor, and just get in there. He’s come down here twice to check on ya.”
Black Lion had no need to ask who he was. Shoving a gift—a pouch of tobacco—into the old-timer’s hand, Black Lion adjusted his headdress over his hair, grabbed hold of Ranckles’s reins and hurriedly headed toward the arena.
It had rained the day before the show was to open. This was both good and bad. The good was that the air was clear, fresh and invigorating, if a little humid. The bad was that there was muddy water everywhere.
Black Lion had no choice but to leap over the many mud holes, as he pulled Ranckles, an Appaloosa, after him.
In an effort to determine the time, Black Lion glanced upward toward the sun, not the best action to take when one is also running. Momentarily blinded, he rammed straight into an obstacle, sending whatever it was to the ground, and unfortunately for it, directly into the mud. Luckily for Black Lion, Ranckles seemed to have more sense than his owner and stopped quickly enough so as to avert a real disaster.
Looking down to see what it was he had run into, Black Lion was disconcerted to behold yet another female. Grimacing slightly, he rolled his eyes.
“I saw that,” said the female heap who had landed at his feet. Her voice was surprisingly beautiful.
Black Lion, however, was not so easily impressed, since it was still a female voice. He looked passively at the woman and uttered, “I am sorry,” then he groaned a little as he gave her a closer look.
The woman had raised her eyes, and they were the deepest, most clear blue eyes he had ever seen, and Little Blue Eyes, as he immediately dubbed her, stared back at him. Unwillingly, he found he was not immune to her charm.
“You rolled your eyes at me,” she complained indignantly.
“Forgive me. I am late for my performance. I hurry when I should perhaps tarry.” He heaved a deep sigh then turned to leave.
“That is all? I get no more apology than that? Will you at least help me up?”
Black Lion frowned. Lovely though this young woman might be, he couldn’t help but compare her to the well-brought-up Lakota women with whom he was acquainted. No polite Lakota woman would dare to use a voice on him that, for all that it was pretty, was filled with antagonism. Indeed, in the country of the Lakota, it was considered the height of bad manners to speak to a man with anything but a pleasant demeanor. “Where I come from,” he vocalized, “women speak softly and pleasingly. And they do not contradict a man.”
Perhaps he should have kept the observation to himself, however. She scoffed at him. “I beg your pardon. Do you, an American Indian, seek to lecture me on manners? You, who have not even offered your hand to help me out of this mud? Where were you raised? With wolves?”
He stepped toward her. Obviously, he did not understand what a white man was required to do. “Forgive me. I am not from here. I do not know your customs.”
“Pray, is it really that difficult to understand? Look at me.”
He did, which was part of the problem. She was enchanting…as well as… There was something about her that pulled at him.
At the moment, she was a mass of dark hair and sky-blue material, except where she had rolled in the mud, of course. It occurred to him that she wanted him to help her up, something no Lakota woman would ever expect or need. For it was a man’s job to protect and to provide, and a Lakota woman knew this. She would never interfere with a man or with his work.
But here in this England, Black Lion was out of his element. With one more apology, he bent over the young lady, and as though she were as lightweight as the headdress he wore, he picked her up.
She was rounded and soft, he noted at once, and she was probably the most shapely young woman he had ever had the good fortune to hold in his arms.
However, this embarrass
ed him. In his country, men and women who were not married did not touch. Rarely did they even speak.
As he grasped her tiny waist, his fingers tingled at the contact. For a moment, he yearned to hold her closer, to breathe in her sweet scent.
He quickly set her on her feet. “Sorry,” he repeated, and turned away.
Apparently white women here were more than a little different than Lakota women. “That’s it? That’s all? You have nothing more to say? You knock me down like some colonial gun-barreling, Wild West gunslinger. You ruin my dress and my umbrella. And all you have to say is sorry?”
Spinning back toward her, he spared the delicate creature a glance, but for all that it was fast, the look was thorough. Long dark-brown hair that cascaded into ringlets over her shoulders; creamy, pale, pinkish complexion; blue eyes that were made bluer by the color of her clothes. In truth, she was more than beautiful. She was…exquisite.
He said, “I am late.”
“Yes?”
“I have to…hurry.” Was she comely but not very smart?
“Look at me. You have ruined my dress.” She held out a muddy piece of the material as evidence. “You slung me into the mud, and then turned away without helping me up.”
“I helped you up.”
“After I complained.”
“I still helped you up.”
She sighed impatiently. “That’s not the point.”
Black Lion realized he probably appeared stupid, but he could only gape at her. She wanted something else? Wasn’t it enough that they had touched, that he was speaking to her when there was no chaperone here to thwart him? Did she not fear for her reputation?
He was not left long to wonder, however, for she continued, “Do you not understand that I will have to pay to have the dress washed and pressed tomorrow?” She blew out a breath. “And that’s tomorrow, what about today? How am I supposed to endure the rest of the day with all this guck on me? And look here, my jacket is torn too.” She put a hand to her head. “Where’s my hat?”
For a moment, Black Lion felt as guilty as a wayward boy. Once, long ago, one of the women from the tribe had scolded him in much the same manner. It had been so demeaning an experience that it had never happened again. He had ensured it.
