Chieftain (Historical Romance)

by Nan Ryan

  Interrupting, Shanaco said, “We’ll get away with it, Maggie. Do you actually suppose Sparks would ever admit that a dog and a mere waif of a woman managed to put him away? Why, you could pin a note—along with a lock of your hair—to Sparks’s tunic telling exactly what happened and he would deny it.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. You’re quite a girl, Maggie Bankhead. Thank you for saving me.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she said with smile. “Now, I am going to nurse you back to health and then I’ll help you escape,” Maggie told him. She paused, leaned closer and said, “If Sparks won’t tell, there’s nothing to worry about. You’re safe here with me. Just rest. You need to rest.”

  Shanaco was too tired and battered to protest. But his split lips again stretched into a small smile of relief and admiration for what she’d done. His coal-black lashes began to lower and in seconds he was again sleeping.

  Maggie stayed where she was, watching over him, making sure he stayed covered and was resting peacefully. Gazing at him, she felt a chill skip up her spine. Just minutes ago she had been in bed with this arrestingly handsome man. Had lain in his arms with him stark naked.

  Maggie bolted up out of the chair and turned her back on Shanaco. It was quiet out now. The mounted troopers had ridden past and were apparently gone. She crossed the room, took the chair away and cautiously opened the front door to let Pistol out. The sun was just beginning to rise.

  Maggie was relieved to see that the ground was covered with several inches of snow. The snow was still falling. Thankfully it was Saturday, so she could stay right here at the cottage until Monday morning without raising anyone’s suspicions.

  Maggie closed the door and went about her usual tasks, stopping every few minutes to check on Shanaco. He was sleeping soundly. He had turned over onto his side and was facing the wall. His back was to her. This was, she decided, the perfect opportunity to clean up and change out of her soiled, wrinkled clothing.

  Hurrying about so she could get the chore done before he awakened, Maggie drew clean underthings from a bureau drawer and picked up her hairbrush from its top. She took the articles to the fireplace and laid them on the hooked rug. She slipped out of her dress while a kettle of water heated on the cookstove. She yanked the pins from her tangled hair and let it fall around her shoulders. With a cautious glance over her shoulder, she stepped out of her petticoats, kicked them aside.

  Maggie poured heated water into a basin and carried it to the fireplace. She bent, placed the pan on the floor, took one final look at the sleeping Shanaco, knelt and eased out of her batiste camisole.

  Maggie’s unbound hair spilled down her slender back.

  Shanaco awakened.

  His eyes slowly opened. He eased over onto his back and slowly turned his head. He saw fire. Bright, blazing fire. Dancing, moving flames. His eyes widened, then narrowed. He squinted, focused with effort and realized that the fire he saw was a woman’s flaming red tresses.

  Maggie.

  Shanaco licked his dry lips and started to speak, to alert her that he was awake. He didn’t make a sound. He stared, fascinated, at the fiery locks spilling around her shoulders and down her back.

  His chest tightened when she abruptly swung the gleaming locks around to one side, reached up and began pulling a brush through their silky ends. She was, he realized, naked to the waist. He tried to look away. Wanted to look away because it was Maggie. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her back was beautiful. Perfect symmetry, flawless skin, narrow waist.

  Shanaco lost his breath when Maggie laid aside the hairbrush and twisted about to more fully face the low burning fire. She reached for a washcloth. She dipped the cloth into a pan of water and began sponging herself.

  A guilty voyeur, Shanaco watched unblinking as she pressed the wet cloth to her upturned face and elegant throat. Then slid it lower and slowly swirled it over her bare breasts and delicate ribs. Her eyes were closed with pleasure.

  It was a sight Shanaco knew he would never forget. The beautiful Maggie sitting back on her heels wearing nothing but her lace-trimmed undergarments. Glorious red hair spilling down her back, alabaster breasts with their pale pink nipples gleaming wet from the cleansing bath.

  When Maggie dropped the cloth back into the water, shot to her feet and began to undo the tape at the waistband of her underwear, Shanaco silently groaned and forced himself to turn away. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

  In the quiet of the cottage he could hear the whisper of the gossamer fabric slipping down her legs, knew that she was now naked. In agony he lay there envisioning Maggie standing nude before the fire, the flickering flames caressing her bare, slender body. Beneath the covers, Shanaco clenched his hands into tight fists and reminded himself of what she had done for him. He had the greatest admiration for this brave young beauty who had put her position in jeopardy to save him. He had to remember that at all times.

  Shanaco patiently waited until he was sure Maggie had finished with her bath and was again fully clothed. When she tiptoed to the bed to check on him, he opened his eyes and looked up at her.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” she said, and smiled at him. “Hungry?”

  He shook his head.

  “Nonetheless, you must eat something,” she stated emphatically.

  She brought a tray to the bed and made him eat a few spoonsful of broth and several soda crackers, saying she realized that it was a strange breakfast, but it would be the best thing for him. She insisted he drink a cup of hot tea. After the light meal was finished, she announced that it was time to change his bandages.

  Shanaco objected.

  But it did him no good. Maggie built up the fire and came back to the bed with a roll of clean gauze, the denatured alcohol and the iodine bottle. She spent the next half hour removing soiled bandages, cleaning his cuts and bruises, rubbing gently with alcohol and swabbing with iodine. Finally, she dressed the wounds with the clean white gauze.

  Maggie was dying to quiz him but knew she had best wait until he was feeling better.

  She blinked when she heard him ask, in a low, barely audible voice, “Why, Maggie?”

  “Why? Why did I save you? Bring you here?” He nodded tiredly. “Because I know that Lois Harkins lied.”

  Again he nodded, then smiled weakly and said, “When you save a life, goes the old saying, you are responsible for it.”

  Maggie shook her head firmly and told him, “I’ll be responsible for you until you’re well enough to escape from the fort. Then you’re on your own.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Twenty-Eight

  In the anteroom of the officers’ mess six men awaited the hearing that had been called by Major Miles Courteen. Outside, an armed provost guard stood, carbine at the ready, in the cold morning air. No one was to be allowed in. No one was to be allowed out.

  Five of the six men were seated at a long table.

  The sixth man, Captain Daniel Wilde, paced back and forth before the table, muttering to himself. He knew the major to be unconscious with pneumonia. Damn to hell, how could such a sick man be coming here on this cold, snowy morning to conduct a hearing?

  “You had better be damned sure—” Captain Wilde stopped pacing to caution Sergeant Sparks and the sentry, Private Henry “—that you have the details of last night’s escape ready to relate.”

  Sergeant Sparks rose to his feet. Eyes bloodshot, uniform damp and scruffy, he’d been roused from his snowy slumber by the sergeant of the guards.

  “Captain Wilde, sir, you are not going to believe what happened.” His eyes blinked at the hanging coal-oil lamp. “There we were, me and…”

  The sentence was never finished. There was a thunderous banging on the door. Sparks swallowed anxiously and pivoted about. The provost guard, carbine slung over his shoulder, yanked the door open wide and two white-clad hospital orderlies bore Major Miles Courteen into the room on a stretcher.

  Captain Wilde grew nearly as pal
e as the sickly major. The hospital orderlies gingerly lifted Major Courteen from the stretcher to the head chair. The chair faced the long table and was near the warmth of a large potbellied stove. The orderlies draped a blanket over the major’s shoulders, another over his knees, then moved around to stand behind him.

  The major, with visible effort, raised his right hand.

  Upon this signal, the provost guard ushered in the company clerk. The clerk took a chair at the opposite end of the long table. He set out his tablets, pens and ink, and opened a large Hunter-case timepiece.

  The provost guard shut and locked the door.

  The major nodded to the company clerk.

  The clerk rose. “This hearing in the matter of the Comanche Chief Shanaco is called to order at 0600 hours on this Saturday morning, the twentieth of November, in the year of our Lord 1875. Major Miles Courteen, ranking subordinate, presiding.”

  A few feet from the major, an empty chair sat at an angle. Its occupant could easily face both the major and the men seated down the length of the table.

  Clutching a blanket close around his thin shoulders, Major Courteen said, “Captain Wilde, this hearing to learn the facts regarding the events of the past thirty-six hours is now officially under way. Present your testimony in detail.”

  Wilde stood at parade rest, his hands clasped behind his back, and stated his account of exactly what had happened on the two nights in question. He recounted how the hysterical Lois Harkins had awakened him late Thursday night to tell him she had been brutally raped by the Comanche Chief Shanaco. He repeated what Lois had told him, that she had been feeling poorly and therefore had walked into the village.

  She had gone into the general mercantile store and purchased a tin of pain tablets and left immediately. It was on her way home from the mercantile when Shanaco, drunk and mean, had seized her, taken her to his cabin, and there forcefully made her submit to his animal hungers.

  Major Courteen glanced at the company clerk. The clerk nodded in the affirmative. He was getting it all down.

  Captain Wilde continued as he told of his decision to imprison Shanaco for his crime. Finally he concluded, saying Sergeant Sparks would corroborate.

  The major nodded to Sergeant Sparks. The sergeant rose, cleared his throat and stated that he and the others seated here had aided their superior in subduing and imprisoning the cruel rapist after the tragic turn of events that had left the commandant’s daughter badly injured and in severe physical and mental anguish.

  “And you were a party to lashing Shanaco to the flagpole last evening?” asked Major Courteen.

  Again the sergeant anxiously cleared his throat, stated that he was, then quickly explained, “But we meant only to leave him out for a very short time because he demonstrated absolutely no repentance for his dastardly crime. I was going out to untie him myself when a swarm of rogue Comanches, silent as snakes they were, overpowered the sentry and me. There must have been at least a dozen of them.”

  Private Henry leapt to his feet. “More like two dozen, sir.”

  “Be seated, Private Henry, Sergeant Sparks,” said the major. Both men gratefully dropped back down into their seats. But when Wilde made as if to sit down, Major Courteen said, “Continue to stand, Captain Wilde.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you anything more to add to your statement?”

  “Sir, I’ve told you in detail everything that transpired.”

  “In that case, I have some questions.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wilde was relieved.

  “Did you—” Courteen’s voice lowered as he was racked with a painful cough “—inform the regimental surgeon?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you report this crime to the provost martial?”

  “No, sir.” Wilde kept eye contact with the major only through force of will. He longed to hang his head.

  “Did you call for the sergeant of the guard?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Now, Captain Wilde,” said Major Courteen, visibly struggling for breath, “let me sum this up. You did not inform Doc Ledette, the regimental physician, of the rape.”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “You did not inform the provost martial.”

  Wilde was squirming now. He longed to tell Major Courteen that Lois had begged him not to inform the surgeon or the provost martial. But he kept silent.

  “Correct, sir.”

  A long silence ensued.

  Major Courteen coughed again, breaking the deadly silence. “And so with no medical proof of penetration and no forensic evidence in support, you served as judge, jury and executioner.”

  Wilde longed to tell the major that Lois had made him swear he’d tell no one. But he kept his silence. He was already thought of as a fool. He refused to be known as a fool and a poltroon, hiding behind a woman’s skirts.

  “Y-yes, sir.” Wilde’s voice quavered.

  “And you had the temerity to turn out the troop in search of Shanaco?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Again a lengthy silence.

  Major Courteen coughed. A drop of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. With difficulty he turned his attention to the sergeant.

  “Sergeant Sparks, you were following orders. You bear no responsibility in this and you are free to go.” The major waved his hand at the sergeant’s men. “The same applies to your troopers and to the sentry.”

  His gaze returned to Daniel Wilde.

  “Captain, you are confined to quarters indefinitely,” said Major Courteen.

  The company clerk raised his journal.

  The major nodded. “This hearing was held in greatest secrecy. The company clerk has prepared an oath of silence for each of you to sign.” More blood appeared at the corner of Courteen’s mouth. The white-clad hospital orderlies brought forth the stretcher and helped the major aboard.

  “Company clerk, have the regimental surgeon and the provost martial meet me at the hospital as soon as possible.” He wheezed and clutched his chest, unable for a moment to continue.

  At last he spoke, again addressing the company clerk. “When you are satisfied that the oath is signed and witnessed by all present, have the provost guard release the men.”

  “Major,” an orderly pleaded.

  “Get me to my sickbed,” the major ordered.

  Twenty-Nine

  Shanaco was fascinated with Maggie. He had never known a woman who was as intelligent, resourceful and fearless. He saw Maggie Bankhead as a remarkably strong person who belonged to herself alone. She had no need for counsel with others before making a decision or taking a chance.

  Only the independent Maggie would have dared slip out alone in the middle of a cold winter night, strike the night guard on the head, deal with the brute Sparks and drag a heavy, unconscious half-breed who’d been accused of rape back to her cottage.

  Shanaco knew in his heart that anyone else—man or woman—would have been afraid of him. Not Maggie. He had never seen the slightest hint of fear in her expressive blue eyes when she looked at him.

  Shanaco was both strongly drawn to Maggie and completely puzzled by her. She was so obviously female in everything she did and said and in the way she looked and moved. She was tall and slender and had a wealth of flaming red hair. She was a striking beauty with enormous blue eyes and flawless skin, but it was not just her fair good looks that enchanted him.

  It was her total unawareness of his enchantment.

  As the hours passed and Shanaco and Maggie remained sequestered in her cottage, Shanaco was struck again and again by the force of her inherent sensuality. Maggie touched his maleness in a way that aroused him as no other woman ever had. Yet she was blissfully ignorant of it.

  Shanaco became increasingly annoyed with himself.

  Self-control had always been his long suit, but this unwitting young woman had robbed him of his customary composure. Each time she approached the bed he found himself tensing in expectation. When she laid soft ha
nds on him, his heart hammered heavily in his chest.

  Maggie never noticed.

  Or so Shanaco thought.

  Maggie changed his bandages and bathed his wounds with a manner as antiseptic as the alcohol she used, never realizing that her soft hands were spreading incredible heat.

  Secretly she thrilled to the touch of smooth bronzed skin stretched tightly over muscle and bone.

  “Did that hurt?” Maggie asked, feeling his body grow taut beneath her fingertips.

  “No,” Shanaco managed, then held his breath as she pushed the covers down past his waist to examine a wound just above his left hipbone. She peeled the gauze back and smiled. “It’s looking so much better,” she said. “You no longer need a bandage here.”

  Maggie discarded the soiled gauze and cleaned the wound with the professionalism of a trained nurse. But she felt her face grow warm as she noted, with intense curiosity, the thick, well-defined line of coal-black hair running down Shanaco’s flat belly starting at his navel and disappearing beneath the blanket.

  Shanaco would have been surprised to know that never for a second had Maggie forgotten he was naked. Or that she had seen him naked. All of him. Even that most intimate male part of him. And that she couldn’t forget how he looked. Or that each time she got close to him she felt his raw power encompassing her, drawing her to him, thrilling her. She was overwhelmed by his potent masculinity and longed to kiss away all his pain.

  Ashamed of her wanton thoughts, Maggie took great pains to conceal her true feelings. She was determined not to reveal her growing attraction to this man who would all too soon be gone from the fort and out of her life forever. She would, she told herself, ignore the fact that he was virile and masculine and the most exciting man she had ever known.

  But it was not Shanaco’s incredible good looks that touched her heart. He had been wronged, and she knew it was not the first time he had suffered because of his Indian blood. Yet she had never heard him complain about the unfairness of life. Never lamented being a loner of necessity. Never bared his soul; never demonstrated any self-pity.