by Nan Ryan
She saw the two men to the door. Double Jimmy hugged her and stepped out into the night. Shanaco thanked her and told her he had enjoyed the evening.
“In that case you must come with Double Jimmy again,” she said, and offered her hand.
He took it warmly in his and gently squeezed her slender fingers. With the hint of a smile, he warned, “If I’m still here.”
A pain of near panic shot through Maggie’s chest. “Saturday. Come back Saturday night.” She paused, then anxiously added, “I mean, come with Double Jimmy, just as you did tonight.”
Shanaco nodded. “I wouldn’t think of coming alone.”
“No, certainly not.”
Twenty-One
Shanaco said good-night and stepped out into the chill November darkness. He glanced at the wolf-hound stationed by the door. Pistol’s gleaming golden eyes were instantly riveted to the tall, lean stranger.
But to Maggie’s dismay, the faithful guard dog didn’t move nor did he make a sound. Shanaco snapped his long fingers and Pistol went barreling past Maggie into the warm cottage. Shanaco slowly raised his eyes to meet Maggie’s. She stared at him, the fine hair rising on the nape of her neck.
“How did you do that?” she asked. “Pistol barks at everyone but you. Why?”
Shanaco said nothing—just smiled, turned on his heel and left her.
Maggie slowly closed the door. Pistol was already across the room, stretched out before the fire, dozing. She shook her head, nonplussed by Pistol’s response, or lack thereof, to a stranger’s presence in her home. It was as if Shanaco could control the wolfhound with just a look.
Maggie leaned back against the door and sighed, the dog’s puzzling laxity quickly forgotten. Her thoughts were only of Shanaco—the handsome half-breed, the last Comanche chieftain, the mysterious mixed-blood no one really knew.
Maggie sighed again. And then she began to smile involuntarily. She had thoroughly enjoyed the evening. She had found the enigmatic Shanaco to be good company. He was charming and intelligent and entertaining. And while she had heard all the negative talk about him, she knew there was another side to the man.
Maggie pushed away from the door. The truth was, that despite his faults, she couldn’t help liking Shanaco. She liked hearing him speak, liked hearing him laugh. Liked seeing him seated across the table from her, as if he belonged there. She liked looking up to find his arresting silver eyes fixed on her and she liked watching the play of firelight across his starkly chiseled face. And she liked watching the muscles work in his smooth bronzed throat when he swallowed.
Climbing up onto her mattress, Maggie stretched out on her stomach and placed her chin on her folded hands as she continued to reflect on the evening with the fascinating chieftain.
Shanaco was taller than the other Comanches by a good three or four inches. He looked older than his twenty-six years, and his strongly cut features bore the stamp of his mixed blood. It was clear he was not pure Comanche, nor was he all white. His striking countenance was perfectly refined by his mother’s aristocratic blood. Yet his powerful body had the look of repressed savagery, which his well-fitting white-man’s clothes could not conceal.
Maggie flopped over onto her back, flung her arms above her head and shivered. The simple act of standing at the stove beside Shanaco had been incredibly pleasurable. The entire evening had been enjoyable and exciting. He possessed the power to thrill her by just being in the same room with her.
His strong masculine presence had filled her little cottage to such a degree that she had, at times, found it difficult to breathe. And that troubled her. Shanaco was a powerfully magnetic force to be reckoned with and Maggie knew in her heart that it wouldn’t be wise to be around him too often.
She had always prided herself on not behaving a simpering, swooning fool where the opposite sex was concerned. She had no intention of losing her head or her heart to any man, no matter how compelling. Yet she couldn’t forget the feel of Shanaco’s smooth, warm lips on hers. What a kiss that had been.
Maggie felt her heart skip a beat.
She frowned and scolded herself for acting impulsively by inviting Shanaco to come back Saturday night. Why on earth had she done such an imprudent thing? And why had he agreed to come? Surely a worldly man like Shanaco had better ways to spend a Saturday night.
Too late now. She couldn’t very well withdraw the invitation. That would be unforgivably rude. She fretted as finally she got up and turned down the bed.
Maggie needn’t have worried.
Double Jimmy showed up alone on that cold Saturday evening. Maggie’s welcoming smile slipped slightly as she looked curiously around, expecting the tall Comanche to step out of the shadows and into the light.
“Shanaco sends his regrets,” Double Jimmy quickly said. “He couldn’t make it this evening.”
Maggie was stunned by the degree of disappointment that instantly swamped her. She had made a special effort to look her best. Now she realized it had been solely for Shanaco’s benefit. She’d had Katie help dress her hair atop her head and she had worn one of her most attractive dresses. She had counted the hours until she saw him again. Had waited impatiently for him to arrive.
“It’s just as well,” she managed, and smiled once more. “Now we can have a nice long visit, just the two of us.”
“That we can, child, and I’m pleased that I won’t have to share you.” Double Jimmy reached out and patted Pistol’s head. He stepped inside and added, “Besides, it’s going to be a while before we can get together again.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I’m heading back up to Washington come Monday morning.”
“Again, so soon?” Maggie frowned. “I’ll miss you. How long will you be gone?”
“Not as long as the last time, I hope. But I need to spend more time with those Washington bureaucrats, see if I can’t set them straight once and for all. These Comanches are going to starve this winter if the rations are not increased.”
Maggie exhaled wearily. “It’s going to be awfully lonesome around here,” she said over her shoulder as she headed for the cookstove. “You’ll be gone. And my good friend, Katie Atwood, is leaving on the stage Monday morning.”
“I know. I’d heard Katie’s husband has been transferred to Fort Richardson down in Texas,” Double Jimmy said. “That’s a shame. I know you two young women spent a lot of time together.”
The weather had turned.
The nights had grown bitter cold as blue northers, one after another, blew across the desolate plains and low hills of the reservation. Maggie took down an extra quilt and spread it across the foot of her bed.
A week had passed since the night Shanaco had come for supper. Maggie hadn’t seen him since. But she had heard the usual stories about him. He had been seen swaggering down the sidewalks of the civilian village, drunk and sullen. He’d been in another fight after one of the locals pulled a knife on him in Jake’s card parlor. A female going into the mercantile store swore that Shanaco had looked at her lasciviously and she’d been terrified.
Maggie supposed that some of the stories were undoubtedly true. But not all. She had known since the morning Shanaco had ridden through the fort gates that he would inherently attract trouble. And that he would not always be to blame.
Maggie undressed, slipped between the icy sheets, turned onto her side and drew her knees up. She snuggled down into the mattress and was soon fast asleep.
Just past midnight a loud knock instantly awakened her. Heart hammering, Maggie lunged up, threw on a robe and hurried to the door.
“Who is it?” she called out.
“Coyote” came the old man’s response.
Maggie threw open the door. Shivering, the aged Kiowa chief said, “Miss Maggie, is Bright Feather. The boy is sick. Bad sick.”
“Oh, no,” Maggie said, clutching the lapels of her robe. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”
“Think it is the influenza. Child very hot, but free
zing cold.”
Maggie nodded. “I’ll go right over. Won’t take me a minute to get dressed.”
“I wait right out here,” Coyote said.
A few minutes later, Maggie, bundled up against the cold, hurried toward the Kiowa reservation with Old Coyote at her side and Pistol on her heels.
Outside the tepee, Maggie turned to Coyote and said, “You go on home now and get some rest.”
“I stay if you need me.”
Maggie patted his stooped shoulder. “You’ve done enough. I’ll take over.”
He nodded, turned and left.
Maggie folded back the flap of the big tepee, ducked her head, went inside and shrugged out of her warm wrap. She straightened, squinting in the dim light, then her heart squeezed in her chest when she saw a big, broad-shouldered man with his back to her, sitting cross-legged on a fur-skin bed, holding the sick Bright Feather in his arms.
Silently, Maggie approached. She sank down onto her knees beside the pair. She sat back on her heels and laid a gentle hand on Bright Feather’s dark head.
She and Shanaco exchanged worried looks.
“What can I do?” she whispered.
“Stay here with him. Hold him,” Shanaco said softly. “Love him.”
Maggie nodded, sat flat down on the soft fur bed and allowed Shanaco to place Bright Feather in her arms. The boy’s sick eyes opened. He saw Maggie’s bright hair and managed a weak smile.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” she murmured, and pressed him close against her breasts. “Right here with you.”
Expecting Shanaco to leave now that she had arrived, Maggie gave him a questioning look when, instead of rising to his feet, he moved around behind her. He stretched a stiffened arm out, placed his palm flat on the floor and said, “Lean against me so your back won’t get tired.”
“You’re staying?”
“We’ll take turns holding him,” Shanaco said. “Now, lean back.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I’m fine,” she said. “I’m not tired.”
“My chest is yours when you do tire” came his low, well-modulated voice.
“Look in my reticule,” she instructed. “There’s a tin of pain tablets.”
Shanaco shook a couple of pain tablets from the small tin box. Morning Sun, the quiet Kiowa woman who looked after the tribe’s parentless children, promptly brought forth a cup of water. While Maggie held Bright Feather, Shanaco gave him the pills with a couple of sips of water.
“That should do the trick soon,” Maggie said.
She continued to sit there on the floor with Bright Feather cradled in her arms. She soothed him, she whispered to him, hummed a lullaby and prayed that he would be all right.
A full hour passed before Maggie began to feel as if her tired back was breaking. Through veiled lashes, she glanced over her shoulder at Shanaco. He said nothing but moved closer and again stretched a stiffened arm out behind her.
Maggie finally gave in and leaned back against him. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment in silent gratitude. Shanaco’s solid chest braced and supported her as she crooned to the precious little boy who was burning with fever and trembling violently.
Through the long cold night Maggie and Shanaco took turns holding Bright Feather. Finally, with dawn not far off, the boy’s fever broke. His temperature went down and he was sleeping peacefully. Out of danger.
The grateful Morning Sun thanked them both for coming and promised to keep a close eye on the child.
“I’ll be back to check on him later in the day,” Maggie told the Kiowa woman.
“I’ll tell him when he wakes,” said Morning Sun.
Outside, Pistol looked up. He started to bark, but when he saw Shanaco the dog fell silent. Pistol eyed Shanaco warily and moved closer to Maggie, pressing his head against her knee. Both Maggie and Shanaco laughed.
Shanaco asked, “May I walk you to your cottage?”
“Yes. I’d like that,” she said honestly.
The stars were beginning to fade, but the first pale streaks of gray light had not yet appeared on the eastern horizon. The reservation and the fort were silent, sleeping.
“Looks like we’re the only ones awake,” Maggie commented.
“Yes. Just you and me. Awake and alone in the night.”
“And no one knows that we are.”
“No one.”
They looked at each other and smiled. When they reached Maggie’s cottage, she slowly turned to face Shanaco. She had the strongest urge to reach out and touch his handsome face. She wondered what he would do if she did. She didn’t dare.
“Would you like to come inside and have a cup of hot coffee?” she asked.
Shanaco shook his dark head. “No thanks.”
Taken aback, longing to have him seated at her kitchen table, she asked bluntly, “Why not?”
Slowly Shanaco lifted both hands, took hold of the collars of her woolen wrap, pressed them together beneath her chin and looked into her eyes for a long moment. His thumbs brushed her cold cheeks and she was sure he was going to kiss her. Abruptly he dropped his hands away and stepped back.
Then he shocked her when he said, “Maggie, if I come inside with you, I might never want to leave.”
Twenty-Two
Shanaco was strongly attracted to Maggie, but he wasn’t sure that the attraction was mutual. Maggie was never nervous or giddy around him the way other women were. And she’d thought nothing of inviting him inside in the middle of the night.
Her nonchalance where he was concerned made her all the more captivating. And challenging. He was vain enough to believe that if he tried very hard, he could make her respond to him as a man.
He had no intention of doing so. He would never again attempt to kiss her as he had that day at his cottage. He wouldn’t have kissed her then had he known her better.
He had come to admire Maggie. He knew, by the way she treated the Indian children, that although she was a bit too fiery and bossy, she was a caring, tenderhearted person. That made her all the more appealing. And untouchable. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—take advantage of such a good woman.
Concerned for her reputation and knowing how the whites regarded him, Shanaco made it a point to never acknowledge Maggie if anyone other than Double Jimmy was present. The majority of the fort’s population had no idea they even knew each other. He had told no one. Would tell no one.
By unspoken mutual agreement, Shanaco and Maggie behaved like strangers when they met. But anytime Shanaco caught sight of Maggie’s flaming red hair he felt his heart thump against his ribs. Just a fleeting glimpse of her and he experienced a deep yearning to hold her in his arms. A longing to embrace her that was so powerful it had become almost a physical pain.
He knew it could never happen.
Just days after Double Jimmy’s departure, Lois’s father, Colonel Harkins, got orders to accompany General Sherman on an inspection tour of the frontier forts scattered across the vast Texas frontier. Major Miles Courteen, the ranking subordinate, was to be left in command of the fort in the colonel’s absence.
When Lois heard the news she could hardly contain her glee. Two whole weeks to do what she pleased. And what she pleased was to seek out the handsome Comanche chieftain and make up for lost time.
Ever the actress, Lois stood in the cold winter rain to bid a tearful goodbye to her father on the Thursday afternoon he was to ride away. The colonel had chosen a handful of officers to go along. One was Maggie’s friend, Lieutenant Dave Finley.
Maggie was there to bid the lieutenant adieu. She hated to see him go. She depended on Dave Finley and Double Jimmy and didn’t like the idea that both would be away from the fort at the same time.
“You take care of yourself, you hear,” Maggie said when the lieutenant squeezed her hand.
“You do the same,” Finley replied as he brushed a kiss to her cheek before turning away to mount up.
Maggie heard sniffling, frowned and turned to see who was crying. Then roll
ed her eyes heavenward when she saw Lois Harkins clinging to her father and pretending to weep. What a fraud! Lois Harkins was probably delighted that her father would be away for two weeks.
“Lois, there, there, dear, please don’t cry,” Colonel Harkins said, consoling his daughter. “I hate to leave you, but I’ll be back before you know it.”
Lois managed to make her eyes well up and tears slipped down her cheeks when she threw her arms around her father’s neck and said, “Oh, how I shall miss you, Father. I’ll just be lost without you.”
Maggie could no longer stomach the spectacle. She turned and hurried away after waving one last time to Lieutenant Finley.
“I know, I know, baby girl,” the colonel was saying, patting Lois’s back and trying to comfort her. “You know you can call on Major Courteen if you need anything.” The colonel paused, exhaled heavily and added, “I do wish you’d take my advice and stay with Mrs. Tullison while I’m away. She’s a fine woman and a fine cook and she’ll be lonely, too, what with her husband going on the tour with us.”
Lois made a face of distaste against her father’s wool-covered shoulder. She wasn’t about to stay with the nosy Margaret Tullison and be watched every moment like a prisoner.
“Now, Papa, you know I can’t sleep in any bed but my own.”
“Well, I suppose you’ll be safe enough. I’ve asked both Mrs. Tullison and Lieutenant Wilde to look in on you.”
Lois gave her father a hug and raised her head. “That’s so sweet and thoughtful of you. Don’t you worry for a minute. I’ll be just fine.”
“I hope so,” he finally said. “You get frightened, you go right to Mrs. Tullison’s. Anybody bothers you in any way, you tell Major Courteen. He’ll set them straight.”
Struggling to maintain her melancholy demeanor, Lois stood waving sadly as the detachment rode away. When the last mounted trooper cantered out through the fort gates, Lois turned away. Shoulders slumping, cheeks wet with rain, she slowly made her way back toward her private quarters. Aware that there were curious eyes on her, she continued to play the part of the despondent daughter until she was safely inside.
