Native Gold

by Glynnis Campbell

  Sakote breathed deep of the woman, and he realized he didn’t want to let her go. The thought was terrifying.

  The silence stretched between them like a canyon, growing deeper and harder to cross by the moment, as he stroked her hair and listened to the ragged sound of her breathing.

  Finally she tilted her head up to look into his eyes and whispered, “You saved my life...again.” She tried to smile, but it quavered on her lips.

  Her words pleased him, and her eyes—so green, so grateful, so trusting—took his breath away. But he couldn’t take more credit than was his due. He thumbed a stray lock of hair back from her forehead. “You probably frightened him more than he frightened you.”

  She pushed away slightly, leaving her small fists upon his chest. “He wasn’t hunting me?”

  “He came to the water to drink.” He slid his hand down to rest at the back of her neck, longing to wrap the curls around his finger.

  “But you shot at him.”

  “Only to chase him away.”

  Mati seemed to consider this for a moment. She caught her lower lip beneath her teeth. He remembered how soft that lip was. "Will he come back?"

  Sakote almost didn’t hear the question. He could think only of her mouth and how he wanted to make a kiss with her again. His voice cracked. "Eventually."

  “Maybe I’ll wait till he returns and do a sketch of him.”

  Sakote raised a brow. He doubted the mountain lion would sit still for a picture. And just because he hadn’t been interested in eating the white woman didn’t mean he wouldn’t be hungry later. Attacks were rare, but they did occur.

  “Oh!” Mattie said, pulling out of his embrace. “Your portrait.” He began to miss her warmth at once as she reached down to pick up the drawing that had fallen to the ground.

  He furrowed his brows over the sketch. It made him look like a capable hunter, worthy of the title of headman. “It’s good.”

  Mattie stared at the portrait. It was good. But she could do better. At a distance, his manner was too aloof. The sketch didn’t capture the proud jut of his jaw or the sparkle of his eyes. It didn’t capture his spirit. He deserved something more intimate, more revealing.

  "Don’t give it the name of a god," he instructed.

  She smiled, taking the drawing from him and locating a pencil. "What shall I call it then? Fierce Konkow Warrior? Hunter of the Great Lion? Sakote the Magnificent?”

  "Just Sakote."

  She placed the tip of the pencil on the page, keenly aware he watched her every move. "How do you spell that?"

  He gave her such a quizzical look that she forgot her nervousness and almost giggled.

  "I don’t," he said.

  It was her turn to be puzzled. "You don’t? What do you mean, you don’t? Do you mean you can’t write?"

  "The Konkows don’t write words. There’s no need. I am called Sakote."

  Nonplused, she lowered the drawing to her lap. "But if your people don’t write, how do you...remember anything?"

  He chuckled, then locked his arms around his knees. It made him look boyish and utterly charming. “Words.”

  “Words?”

  “We...tell stories."

  Just the way he said it, with a twinkle in his eyes, Mattie knew Sakote must be a master storyteller. She imagined him sitting by the fire, holding Hintsuli spellbound with tales of adventure. "What kind of stories?" she prodded. "Can you tell me some of them?"

  He shrugged and poked a finger at the ground, feigning reluctance. "They wouldn’t interest you."

  "Oh, but they interest me immensely. Please won’t you tell me one?"

  He absently drew a line in the dirt. "Maybe later."

  He was being intentionally coy. It made her heart flutter. And now she knew how she could achieve the sketch she desired. "Please?" she crooned. "I’ll make another portrait of you while you’re telling the story."

  The corner of his mouth curved up, and she knew she’d convinced him.

  "Come into the light," she urged.

  The waterfall framed him perfectly, a dark angel against the churning white froth, and his skin glowed like polished bronze in the sunlight. Mattie found the effect he’d had on her before, from across the pool, only intensified at close range. Now she saw the rise and fall of his splendid chest and the flex of his shoulders as he settled cross-legged onto the grass. This close, she glimpsed the subtle curve of his lip and the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that spoke of a happy life.

  This portrait would be special. This was the one she would keep by her bed to look upon, years hence, when Sakote sat around the fire telling stories to his children…and she slept alone in her cabin in the gold camp, when the nights grew cold and her heart lay empty.

  Where that ridiculous, melancholy thought came from, she didn’t know. After all, her future still lay bright before her, didn’t it? Besides, it was absurd to pine over someone she hardly knew.

  She picked up her pencil and touched it to the paper. He was staring at her. Why it unnerved her, she didn’t know. After all, she’d just spent several moments in the man’s arms. But his black eyes seemed to bore into her soul.

  She cleared her throat and tried to focus on the page. "Perhaps if you..."

  She looked up. Something was wrong with his pose. His hair. It should be down, flowing over his shoulders, a visual echo of the water coursing over the rocks.

  She set aside her sketchbook and approached, crouching beside him.

  "If you could..."

  She lifted her hands to his hair, but her fingers trembled as if she were trying to touch lightning. Mentally scolding herself, she set about briskly untying the thong binding his hair. When it loosened, the strands spilled like ink over her fingers and down his back. She moved before him then and ran both hands through the hair at his temples, bringing his locks forward over his collarbone. His hair felt like China silk, and she brushed her fingers through it several times before she realized he’d stopped breathing.

  His eyes had a dark cast now, as if a mist of desire clouded them, and she felt the same mist darken her own vision. His nostrils quivered once, like a hound that has caught an unfamiliar scent, and she sensed momentary fear in him. Her fingers still wove through his hair, white warp against black weft, and she rubbed the gossamer texture between her fingers. She wanted to feel those silken threads across her cheek, against her mouth, upon her breast. Her eyes grew languid with the thought. His skin, vibrant and lush, shone the color of creamed tea. She wondered if he tasted as smooth. Her lips parted of their own accord, and Sakote’s eyes lowered at once at their invitation.

  She could think no more. All she could do was react. Curling her fingers into his hair, she drew near, letting her eyes flutter closed as longing overwhelmed her. Touch alone guided her mouth to his, and when her lips found their harbor at last, she gave a small whimper of relief.

  His breath was sweet as it rushed out of him. She pulled him even closer, wanting to taste more of him, needing to devour all of him. She let her tongue slip between her lips and brush over his, and white-hot fire seared her body.

  Suddenly he was answering her, and a thrill of fear sent her heart racing. His mouth consumed her. His tongue danced over her lips and plunged deep between them, ravishing her thoroughly, sending flames of lust flickering along her skin. A low growl sounded in his throat as he trapped her in his embrace, holding her helpless in unyielding arms.

  She moaned in sweet anguish as he knelt closer, catching her thighs between his own and pressing his body boldly against hers. There was no mistaking the rigid member brazenly making its presence known against her belly. Mattie gasped softly. Lord, she’d witnessed but a fraction of his vigor before. She had every reason to be terrified. He was strong and commanding, seductive and powerful. But, God help her, she was overwhelmed and hungry for more all at once.

  Sakote groaned and felt his groan echo inside Mati’s mouth. He no longer controlled his actions. A wicked spirit must po
ssess him to make him do such savage things to the white woman. His arms enclosed her like the eagle guarding its kill, and he fed on her like the great bird of prey, attacking her brutally, savoring the taste of her flesh. He’d never put his tongue inside a woman’s mouth before. The sensation was like lightning snaking through his veins, searing his body alive.

  But he couldn’t stop. Though she whimpered and dug her fingernails into the flesh of his chest, he couldn’t silence the storm raging all around him. He crushed his man’s-knife against her soft belly, desperate to quiet its relentless longing.

  And then the worst happened. He heard a noise.

  "Pinsuani!" he hissed in the wrong language, jerking back from her and cupping his hand over her mouth to insure her silence.

  He could hardly quiet his own ragged breathing, and it seemed like his heart beat as loud as a kilemi drum. He knew what the sound was. He’d heard it many times. It was the sound of menace, something far more dangerous than a mountain lion.

  He had to run. Now. But how would he explain to Mati?

  He pressed a forefinger to his lips in warning and released her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear, but she wisely made no outcry. He ran his hand through his hair, and then clasped her by the shoulders. Great Wonomi, she was so beautiful. He could hardly bear to leave her.

  "It’s...white men,” he whispered. “I have to go.”

  Her brow crumpled in disappointment, and he felt as if a stone fell upon his chest. But there was no time to waste.

  He scanned her face, memorizing her features. Then he retrieved his arrow, snatched up his bow, and sprinted up the hill, turning to take one final glance, one final drink of the intoxicating woman kneeling forlornly by the pool.

  It was reckless, but he lifted his voice to her, just enough to carry to her ears. "Tomorrow?"

  Taking heart at her quick nod, he crossed the stream and melted into the trees just as the two prospectors crowned the top of the rise.

  Chapter 15

  Mattie supposed it was good Sakote had left when he did. If Swede and Zeke had come upon her draped in wanton abandon across an Indian—which she very well might have been in another minute—they would have...well, she didn’t know what they would have done, but with the fatherly concern Swede seemed to have for her, he might have stripped out a willow switch and turned her over his knee.

  At any rate, given her dishabille and the flustered state of her nerves, she was less than civil when they came traipsing over the rise. Blushing furiously, she stammered in no uncertain terms that this was where she’d chosen to make her ablutions, for heaven’s sake, and if they respected her delicate sensibilities as a lady, they ought not to come by unannounced ever again.

  The ruse worked. Swede turned berry red, and Zeke nearly dug himself into a hole, kicking abashedly at the leaves. While they explained they’d been worried about her, Mattie gathered her things, careful to conceal her morning’s sketches, and followed them back to the camp.

  At Paradise Bar, purchasing supplies for the next week took Mattie’s mind temporarily off of the morning’s indiscretion and the pair of sparkling black eyes that made her heart skip. It also took the bulk of her earnings. She’d used up most of her reserves and eagerly bought all the tinned peaches and oysters the supply man could spare. Looking over the pinch of gold dust that remained in her bag, she realized she’d have to wait till the next mule’s arrival to buy the yardage of calico to line her cabin walls. Then, on sudden inspiration, she poured the last of her wealth into the man’s palm and took a handful of nails in exchange.

  An hour later, Mattie dusted her hands together and perused the interior of her cabin. Her own sketches lined the walls, tacked artistically here and there to make a time line of sorts of her adventures, as well as covering the drafty cracks between the timbers. Argonauts and Panama natives, crusty miners and fresh-faced boys peered at her from the pictures, along with quail and lupines, manzanitas and butterflies. The only sketches she omitted from the gallery were those of Sakote. They were too personal, too revealing to include on the walls. No, those she would keep for her own private viewing.

  She skimmed one of them now, the one she’d first drawn from memory in a heated passion. Even the rendering of the man had the power to make her heart beat unsteadily. But as she studied the drawing, she realized it was flawed. The portrait was recognizable as Sakote, but it didn’t truly represent the man. In life, his eyes were not as cold as they appeared on the page, and his lips—had she really imagined them so unyielding?

  A loud knock at the door startled Mattie from her thoughts, and she quickly stuffed the drawing back inside her portfolio.

  It was the Campbells. All four boys, their hats doffed and their manners well in hand, had come to beg her attendance at some festivity the camp planned for the evening. At least, that was what she could glean from their chatter.

  "We’d be much obliged if you’d..."

  "...it bein’ Saturday night an’ all."

  "...nothin’ real fancy, just some of the boys..."

  "...a few card games and whatnot to..."

  "If you could see your way to join us..."

  "...lots of eats and a little dancin’ maybe."

  "You do know how to dance?"

  They waited with eyes agog and hushed breath. Of course she knew how to dance. She was a lady, after all. And how could she refuse the handsome lads?

  "I’d be delighted," she told them, and her warm smile ignited a surreptitious nudging match between the siblings.

  Only after they left did she pause to wonder how a camp full of men could possibly conduct a proper dance.

  Her question was answered as she milled about the party later that evening. Because of the new supplies, Amos had prepared a savory supper—roast beef and boiled ham, as well as a rich oyster soup, sourdough biscuits, a velvety peach pie, and Madeira nuts and raisins. Everyone gathered in the blossom of light thrown by the dozen or so oil lanterns hung in the trees. The men cleared an area of the hard-packed dirt and let the first couple take the floor.

  Swede bowed to his partner with solemn dignity and extended a meaty hand, the nails of which had been recently scrubbed to near white. His beaver hat and his black coat, though spare in girth and short in the sleeve, made a striking contrast to his freshly washed moon-bright hair, and his newly shaved chin was as round and smooth as a baby’s bottom.

  He nodded to the musicians. One of the Mexican brothers strummed the guitar, Tom blew a lilting run on his fife, and Frenchy leaned into his weeping violin. Then, on Frenchy’s hushed count of four, they proceeded to play a curious but danceable Mexican ballad interwoven with an Irish jig.

  Swede’s partner rushed to finish knotting a red kerchief around one arm, and then placed a hand lightly atop the big man’s paw.

  Without cracking a smile, the couple sashayed off.

  Mattie bit back a horrified giggle at the mismated pair, yet no one around her appeared the least bit disturbed by the sight of Swede and Zeke circling around the packed dirt like the handsome swain and the belle of the ball. In fact, before the musicians could finish two more bars, several other "couples" joined in to take a turn about the deck. Nobody seemed to mind whether they wore the hat or the kerchief, as long as someone swung them around the dance floor.

  Mattie knew she couldn’t avoid the expectant stares of the miners for long. Granny was the only other real female in the camp, and by the look of the sour old woman lurching about to the strains of the lively music, she took to dancing like a cat took to water. Sooner or later, Mattie would have to accept the miners’ invitations to dance.

  She’d avoided looking at the huge cask of brandy that dominated the creaking table, set there by men who had no qualms about leaving it unattended. But now she believed she might need the liquor’s fortification. Otherwise, it’d be a long night. Bracing herself, she managed to down four sips of the strong stuff before the song came to an end.

  Everyone cheered, and all eyes wen
t to her in askance. Swallowing her dread, she clapped her hands appreciatively.

  "That was wonderful, gentlemen. I do believe I’m ready to dance now."

  Mattie soon had cause to regret her words. The men didn’t give her a moment to catch her breath. As soon as one gent finished up with a miner’s minuet, another clasped her hand to beg the subsequent reel. She was passed from man to man like downy thistle on the wind.

  The miners were cordial and decent—Swede watched with a stern frown to ensure that no one’s hands strayed from her waist—but soon the dancing became sloppy. As the level of the brandy cask lowered, so did the facility of Mattie’s partners. Billy Cooper might have fallen had it not been for her support as they keeled a bit too near the band. Red Boone stepped on her foot twice. Jasper Colton, his breath reeking with liquor, declared his sudden affection for her as they swayed over the food table. Even Zeke was drunk, dropping his head on her shoulder for a little snooze, mid-dance, before she jostled him awake and handed him off to Granny.

  But the real chaos began when Dash, the oldest Campbell boy, asked her to dance.

  "You’ll have to forgive me if I sit this one out," Mattie panted, resting a hand on her bosom. "I’m a bit out of breath."

  His younger sibling, Ben, smirked and elbowed him aside. "Why would she want to dance with you anyways? You were trompin’ all over her the last time."

  "What?" Dash gasped, mortified.

  "Come along, ma’am," Ben continued with a wink, clasping her elbow. "I’ll show you how a gentleman does it."

  "No. Truly, sirs," Mattie intervened, removing his fingers from her arm with as much diplomacy as she could. "I’d be delighted to dance with either of you in a moment, but just now, I’m a little fatigued."

  Jeremy, the youngest Campbell, had wandered up by now to see what the fuss was about. "You feelin’ all right, ma’am?"

  "Just a little tired," Mattie replied.

  "You hear that?" Ben poked a finger at Dash’s chest. "She wouldn’t be tired if you hadn’t plum wore her out."

  "Me?" Dash shoved his sibling. "You were the one doin’ all them fancy-dancy..."