by Karen Kay
William, realizing at last that he had no choice in the affair, faced up to his duty.
Chapter Six
Colorado Territory
Three months later
Snow was falling gently as the train slid into the Denver station. The screech of the brakes, the blare of the horn, the sounds of humanity scrambling for their possessions broke into Suzette’s thoughts. But even still, such things barely registered.
Although she was cold, weary of the constant traveling and anxious about the sort of reception that awaited her, her mind was as far away from the business of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway as if such matters as new trains and their stations were commonplace. To Suzette, it was simply another conveyance, and there had been many in this past month: ships, stagecoaches, trains. She grabbed her purse and bag, lingering in her semiprivate compartment when the others on the train were scrambling to depart.
What was Irena going to say to her? Would she shoot questions at her one after the other, curious to know why Suzette had traveled all this way to join her here in the American West? Would she want to know the details as to why she had left England?
Of course by now Irena would know of her broken engagement. Suzette’s mother was sure to have included that tidbit in her letter to Suzette’s grandmother. Did Irena know also of her granddaughter’s embarrassment? Worse yet, was she aware of the scandal of Suzette’s predicament?
Hopefully not. Certainly Suzette would try to hide the particulars of her condition for as long as possible.
A whistle blew, bringing Suzette back to the present. Looking around her, she realized that most everyone who was going to depart had left the car, save her. Squaring back her shoulders and drawing in a deep breath, she at last rose from her seat, settled her hat on her head and stepped away from the refuge of the train.
“Suzette! Suzette! Dear, how good it is to see you.”
Irena rushed toward Suzette, accompanied by the colorful figure of Buffalo Bill Cody.
Suzette smiled reservedly at her grandmother as the two of them approached. “Irena.” Suzette set down her bags. “How glad I am to see you. I’m also happy to realize you must have received my mother’s letter.”
“Of course we did. We’re not entirely away from all civilization here. But come closer, my dear, and give me a hug.”
Suzette did as requested. As soon as Irena’s arms wound around her, she knew an uncanny desire to cry. She refrained from doing so, however. Indeed, too much English blood flowed through her veins to break her reserve in so public a place.
“You do remember Mr. Cody, don’t you, dear?”
“Of course.” Suzette offered Cody her gloved hand.
“Welcome to Colorado, Miss Joselyn.” Cody accepted her hand and bent to present a kiss upon it. “Your grandmother tells me you are quite the actress, as well as a singer. Maybe we could—”
“That’s all in my past.” Suzette smiled at him, as if to take away the sting of her words.
“Yes, well, come along, dear,” Irena said. “We’ll collect the rest of your luggage. I am assuming you have a trunk?”
Suzette nodded.
“Very well. This way, then. I imagine you’re tired and hungry and ready to do nothing more than sleep for several days. There’s no better place to do so than Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. I have ample space in my very luxurious tent…” Irena sent Cody an engaging grin, “…and you can even have your own room within my rather large…well, I’ve come to think of it as my apartment, although it is only a tent.”
“Yes,” agreed Suzette. “That would be good. Very good, indeed. Pray, I think I could use a rest. The journey here has been…pleasant, but it has also been long, and in my…” She paused, realizing she had been about to say, in my condition. Instead, she drew in a deep breath, then said, “I am, indeed, tired.”
Irena took hold of Suzette’s arm, and though the action was simple, Suzette immediately felt better. “Then come along, dear. You’ll soon be back on your feet again, good as new.”
Suzette smiled at Irena. Perhaps that might be true in five or six more months. But more about that later. For now, she did need the rest. Later, she and Irena would talk.
Black Lion trudged through the snow en route to the Song Bird’s tent, the woman whom the white people knew and referred to as Irena. As his feet sank into the sprinkling of the cold, white flakes, Black Lion blessed his good luck. In addition to a business arrangement, he had nurtured an unusual friendship with this woman. It was fortunate to have done so, because the Song Bird was a being of music and art.
It was also a godsend that he basked in her friendship. Maybe in time it would be through her that he might discover the one special song that would free his people.
Although in this regard he was uncertain, since, though his dreams were filled with a feminine voice, it was not the voice of the Song Bird. But he could be wrong.
Still, when they were together, Black Lion would often ask the Song Bird to sing for him. Always he requested her to render him a different song, and there was a purpose behind his entreaties. Someday, when all this was over, he might confess the motives of his soul to her, for even though he must, he felt as though he were using her for his own gain.
However, that time of confession was not now.
At present, time was his enemy. Alas, he had only one year remaining in which to end his people’s enchantment, only one more year to solve the riddle of the song.
If he failed… But that was unthinkable. He mustn’t fail.
“Auntie,” he called out, as he reached the Song Bird’s tent and scratched on the entry flap. “Auntie?”
He alone addressed her in this manner. Since the Wild West Show had come to roost here in Colorado, Black Lion had begun to think of this woman more as family than as a friend. In truth, she looked after his needs, checked on his comfort and spoke to him as a mother might a son. This was why he had started calling her Auntie, in honor of the custom of his people.
Still, there was one aspect of their friendship that Black Lion wished were different: She paid him money to stand watch over her and to act as her guard. Because it was not in his nature to take money from a woman, oftentimes he felt the guilt of doing this. Many times he had tried to tell her it was his duty to protect a person who was his elder and that he should not receive remuneration. But her only reaction to this had been to laugh.
“Elder?” she had asked him, batting her eyelashes at him.
Black Lion had grinned, but the point had been made. He had never mentioned the matter again, nor had she, although she still continued to pay him wages for his services as a watchdog. As a consequence, since he had no use for the white man’s money, he was sending what little he had back to the reservation. His friend, Two Bears, would need it. With the deep snows of winter upon them, and because he feared Two Bears might still be ill, he suspected that Two Bears would be only too happy to receive the gift.
“Auntie,” Black Lion called out again, “I have come to call on you as your note asked me to do.”
No answer.
Black Lion waited a moment. “Auntie?”
Obviously she wasn’t in. Should he linger?
He knew the answer, of course. Her note had said she needed him immediately. If that were the case, then he would stay here all day, if necessary. Though his feet were cold, stoic-like he sat on his haunches, ready and willing to wait.
He turned his attention outward, at the snow gently falling to the earth. He appreciated this time of year, prized it for the lack of sound a good snowstorm lent to the air, and he basked in the quiet cast all around him.
However, were he at home, back on the reservation, he might not feel so kindly toward the winter. This time of year was often brutal for his people. Food could be scarce.
But this was not so here at the Wild West Show. T
here was more food to go around than any of them could possibly eat, a circumstance that left Black Lion full, happy and able to relish the beauty of the season without fear of imminent peril. If only it could be so for the people back on the reservation. Perhaps when his duty was discharged and he didn’t feel the constant burden of the responsibility which drove him, he might lend his hand at changing this aspect of reservation life. None should go hungry.
On this thought, he again directed his attention outward. It was then he heard it. What was it? Tinkling, as white man’s glasses sound when they touch? No, this was different. This had a melody to it.
Curious, he rose, turning his notice to the Song Bird’s tent. The sound was coming from in there.
“Auntie?” he cried out again.
Still no answer. But someone was in there. He could hear their movements, like the faint swish of silk over canvas.
Cautiously, as quietly as his namesake, he ducked in beneath the tent’s entrance flap, and like a cat, crept into the inner sanctuary of the Song Bird’s private quarters. Hers was an unusual tepee. It was quartered off into sections, with drapes and room dividers making four separate spaces. The sound came from the back room. There, he could see a soft beam flickering, and the scent of a gaslight wafted to him.
Creeping silently across the outer parlor, as the Song Bird liked to call this room, Black Lion paced one careful step after another, until at last he had reached the Japanese-constructed room dividers.
Squatting, he peeked around the partition.
A woman swayed to the pulsing sound of a music box. Her back was turned toward him, and all he could see was a cascade of long dark hair, a slim body and gentle curves beneath a robe that hugged her silhouette.
She danced. And she danced. After a while, she started to hum in time to the music, as well. As though bewitched, Black Lion couldn’t move.
Who was she?
Then she sang aloud, softly at first, but as the song rose and fell, her words gained more and more beauty. Her voice was spellbinding, like nothing of this world. He wondered if he had stumbled upon a goddess.
The tinkling music in the box slowed. The woman crossed the floor toward the music container, turned the key, and the tune played all over again.
Barely daring to breathe, Black Lion continued to watch.
Should he announce himself? Was it right to remain where he was and stare at her without her knowledge? But if he made her aware of his presence, would that knowledge end the enchantment?
Because he feared it might be so, he justified to himself that it was right to remain hidden.
Still swaying to the slow beat of the music, she turned her profile toward him. For the first time since stepping foot inside this tent, he saw her in full, and he was startled to witness the tears that were falling to her cheeks. She inhaled a ragged breath, breathed out, and more tears slid down a perfect profile—one that he recognized.
It was she, the beauty from England. The woman he had knocked into the mud so unceremoniously.
What was she doing here? And why was she crying? She had been anything but melancholy that day when he had met her.
Black Lion straightened and tipped forward on his feet, as though with his body he might reach out and give her comfort.
Fortunately for him, the memory of her sharp tongue countered the feeling of sympathy, and he held himself back.
For the moment, he would stay where he was.
So she danced, and she danced. She cried as she swayed, and her sobs seemed to wrack his soul. How long he stood there, he could never be certain. Entranced by her, he watched her, wishing he might make contact with her, yet knowing he should not.
It wasn’t until she pulled back her hair, fixing it away from her face, that she walked toward the music box, where she picked it up and shut its lid. The music faded from the room.
But not so the magic.
He swallowed hard. Either he should leave or announce himself. To continue to spy on her was no longer an action he could justify.
He might have stepped forward then, except he recalled again their heated exchange back in England. Most likely he was not the right person to give her aid. He might have walked away, and in fact had turned to do so, but then he heard another of her heart-wrenching sobs. That decided him. He couldn’t go. It was simply not in him to do so.
Breathing in deeply, he stepped from around the divider and cleared his throat.
At the sound, she spun toward him. Wide red eyes stared at him for a moment, clashed with his and then suddenly there was recognition in her gaze. “You! What are you doing here?”
“I am honored that you remember me, and I am here because—”
“How long have you been here?” she interrupted.
“Long enough.”
She lifted her chin as if to say she didn’t care that he had seen her in a weak moment. She wiped her eyes. “Why are you here?”
“I…” What could he say to explain his presence and his reluctance to make himself known? “I…heard the music, and I feared something might be wrong with the Song Bird. I thought to investigate.”
“The Song Bird?”
“The woman the white-eyes call Irena.”
“Oh, Irena.” She laughed grimly. “You have business with Irena, then?”
“I do sometimes.”
“Yes, well, she was here earlier, but she has gone seeking a young warrior, I’m afraid.”
He lifted his chin. “It may be that she seeks me.”
Shadows, cast from the soft, single light in the room, crossed over her face, lending her a fairylike appeal, except for her study of him, which was mutinous. “It’s funny how these things happen, is it not?”
“Funny?”
“I thought to never see you after that first time. And yet here you are. Here I am.”
“Hau, here we are.” He paused. “And we are alone together. It is enough to ruin your reputation yet again.” He cast her a lopsided grin. “I fear that now you truly have no choice but to accept my proposal of marriage, if only for your own sake.”
“Marry you?” She frowned, then shook her head and turned away from him, presenting him with her profile. “I… Thank you for coming here today.” She stared toward the floor. “I will tell Irena you were here.” There was a tremble in her voice.
He swallowed hard. It was not in his heart’s nature to intrude on another’s privacy, yet he would give comfort if he could. “Jesting aside, is there anything I can do for you? Is there something you need that I can supply?”
“You mean besides a chance at another life? Oh, please…”
He watched her profile as a tear escaped its bounds and fell down a beautiful cheek. As he surveyed her, it came to him what his first observation of her had missed. Her belly was bigger than it had been the last time he had seen her. The difference was slight, yet…
He took a step forward. “You are with child,” he said simply. “I will help you if I can.”
Her sob was soul-wresting, yet strained. Though she said nothing to affirm his words, the tears now coursed freely over her face.
At last, gaining control over herself, she voiced, “You wish to help me?” Her words trembled on her lips.
“If it is within my power.”
She took in a shaky breath, then sent him a look that might have been mocking, if not for the sadness in her countenance. “Perhaps I should take you up on your joke, and…” Her face cleared suddenly, then she frowned at him, looking as though she might be seeing him for the first time.
“Joke? You mean, to marry me?”
“Yes, that is what I meant. Do you think your wife would object?” Through her tears, her gaze turned sarcastic yet grief-strained, all at the same time.
It was his turn to frown at her. “My wife?”
“Yes. The wi
fe who is supposed to tame me?”
“Hau.” He smiled slightly. “Now I recall.”
“How convenient of you to forget that aspect of your life.”
“Convenient, perhaps, but unnecessary. I am not married. Alas, I fear there would be no one but myself to…tame you.”
She paused. “But if I recall correctly, you said that a man had to be married to be with the show.”
“An Indian man has to be married,” he corrected.
“You are Indian.”
“So I am. I hope you can keep a secret, for this is something I have not told the Long-haired Show Man.”
“The Long-haired Show Man? Who is that?”
“Buffalo Bill,” he supplied.
“Oh, I see.” A taunting smile hovered over her lips. “Well, I suppose now you will have to marry me…and not simply to save my honor.”
“Ece? And why is that?”
“Because in the white man’s world, a woman is not able to say anything bad about her husband. We call it testifying. She cannot tell his secrets in public.”
“Eya, I understand.” He paused, then keeping the conversation in the same vein as she, he continued, “There is nothing else we can do, then. I will have to make you my bride, provided you are not already married to the one who did this to you.”
“I am not.”
He nodded. He had guessed as much.
“Well, good.” Her lips quivered with her effort to speak. “I’m glad that is settled. When shall the deed be done?”
“You do not jest with me?”
She regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Slowly, as if she could scarcely credit her own decision, she said, “No. I do not jest. I will marry you.”
His brows came together as he took a step forward. He was intrigued by this woman, greatly intrigued. But more than this, he wanted to take her in his arms this very minute. He wanted to wash away the shadows that hovered over her, if only for a little while.
However, in such situations as this—being alone with a woman—someone had to think clearly, and it appeared that at this time and place, he was that person. “Let us discuss this in a greater way. We must consider other things that might cause problems.”
