by Karen Kay
“It is.” After snatching the towel away from him, she dried herself as best she could, then pulled it around her shoulders. Instantly warmth spread through her.
After a while, he said, “May I turn around now?”
“Yes, you may, but first, could you please hand me my comb, which is in the same pocket?”
He produced the object in short order, then turned toward her. “I would ask you a question.”
“Fine. Ask away,” she said, beginning to feel at ease with the man.
“What is this archaeology that you mention?”
He surprised her. “Archaeology?”
“Aa. Is that not one of the tasks that takes you into Blackfeet country? Turn around.”
“Turn around? Why?”
“I will comb your hair.”
“But—”
“Turn around.” He made a circling motion with his finger.
“I’m not asking you to comb my hair.”
“I know. Do you object to me doing it?”
In truth, the idea of this man touching her anywhere caused her stomach to tighten.
And yet, how many times in a person’s life was one offered such a luxury? Though she supposed she shouldn’t let him do it, the opportunity to let another person attend to the tangles in her hair—just this once—seemed too appealing to let slip by unheeded. “No, it’s not that I object to your combing my hair—not really. It’s only that I’m…astonished.”
“Do not be,” he replied, as she scooted around to place her back toward him. Before he launched himself into the task at hand, he said, “Your hair has many twists and waves, and it would be difficult for you to brush it on your own.”
“True. But I am used to doing it.”
“Then sit and enjoy. It is, after all, a man’s job.”
“A man’s job?”
“Aa, it is so with my people. Is it not true with yours?”
“No, not at all.”
“Humph! Your hair is also an unusual color, even amongst the white people, I think.”
“Yes. I have been told that.”
He ran the comb gently through a snarled lock. Pausing, he untangled the delicate curl, his fingers inadvertently skimming over the skin at her neck.
Tingles raced along her spine, and she knew she should stop this. It was intimate, too intimate.
But she didn’t cease it. In truth, it felt much too wonderful to put a stop to.
Slowly, he ran his fingers from the top of her head to the very tips of her hair, the delicate graze awakening every nerve ending in her neck and back. A feeling of serenity settled over her. “You do that well,” she said.
“Aa. I used to comb my grandfather’s hair—every day. And I have often done the same for my adopted grandmother.”
“Oh? I didn’t know you were adopted. Who are your adopted people?”
“The Pikunis.”
She spun back toward him, and he dropped his hands to his lap. “Oh? Then you have been adopted by the Blackfoot and are not a blood member of the tribe?”
“Saa, I am not adopted by the Blackfoot.”
“But…” She frowned. “Didn’t you say that the Pikunis are part of the Blackfoot Confederation? And if that is so…”
He sighed. “’Tis a complicated story.”
“Oh.” She swung around so that once again her back was presented to him. She only hoped he would continue his ministrations.
He did. “Do you wish to hear the story?”
“I believe I would. Otherwise, I must admit I am confused.”
“Soka’pii.”
“What does that word mean?”
“Soka’pii? Good. It means good.”
She glanced over her shoulder as he said the word, and she saw that he made a quick hand motion, out, away from his chest, as though he spoke with his hands as well as his tongue. “Thank you,” she said. “Now about that story.”
He returned the comb to the tangles in her hair, running it slowly through her locks. In due time, he began, “Once, when I was very young—”
“Before or after we met?” She turned slightly toward him.
“After, and I would be greatly honored if you would let me tell the story, perhaps without interruption…”
“All right,” she agreed, then shot a flirtatious little smile at him from over her shoulder.
He caught his breath then dropped the comb. He stared at her for a long moment. As though it took great will, he looked away from her. Clumsily, he picked up the comb, but she could tell that his composure was shaken, for his Adam’s apple bounced as though he couldn’t control it.
Still grinning, Effie spun back around, satisfied for the time being that he appeared to be as affected by her as she was by him.
He cleared his throat and began again. “It is true that I am of the Blackfoot Confederation, but not the Pikunis. My own tribe is the Blood, or as we say it, the Kainan. The Kainan is also a part of the Blackfoot Confederation. My mother and father were visiting friends when I was a baby. I am told I was only weeks old. They were killed.”
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Is that why you speak of only your grandfather and grandmother?”
“Aa, it is partially so. Also, when I was still fairly young, I was lost from those who had raised me—”
“You mean the Blood Indians?”
“No, the Blackfoot.”
“But I thought—”
“My mother and father were visiting the Blackfoot, and the man I call Grandfather is of that tribe. But later I was lost even from them and was eventually found by the Southern Pikunis. Because my father and mother were already gone, the Pikunis adopted me into their tribe.”
“I see, I think. So you were raised within the Blackfoot Confederation…different tribes within it, but basically by the Blackfoot. And by blood you are also of the Blackfoot Confederation?”
“Soka’pii, that is correct.” He paused as he drew the comb through her hair. Then, quite abruptly, he stopped. “Now it is your turn.”
“My turn?”
“I have a question for you.”
“I will not tell you what I seek in the mountains, if I am even looking for anything. So do not ask me.”
“Aa, I have come to understand this. But that is not what I am hoping to learn—at least not at this moment.”
“Oh?”
“What I would like to ask is: What is archaeology?”
“Archaeology? Well, let me think of the best way to explain it.” Crossing her legs in front of her, Effie leaned forward, placing her arms on her thighs. It was hard to think when his hands were all over the back of her head.
Perhaps she made too much of a simple thing, however, for his graze was hardly sensual. His fingertips were rarely touching her delicate skin now, as though he were carefully avoiding doing so.
Sighing, she hugged her knees.
A thought came out of nowhere. Was this what it would be like to be married? To this man?
A flush stole slowly over her face.
Her thoughts seemed to betray her. More as an attempt to distance herself from the waywardness of her musings, she began to talk. “Well, I suppose you could say that an archaeologist studies man, or rather things that man has made. As such, we don’t really probe into man’s social orders or groups or religions. But rather we look at and examine the things that man has created with his own hands, and mostly those things he made in the past. Once we find these objects, we study them, because from them we can discover many things about how that man lived.”
“Hmm…” he said.
“Now most of the items we investigate must be dug up and found again, since hundreds or even thousands of years have changed the landscape of the land. So when an archaeologist talks about a dig or an excavation, what he trul
y means is that he is going to quarry in a particular area. By use of shovels, trowels and brushes, we delve into the earth and into the past, looking for objects. From those objects we find, we seek to know more about the man of the long ago.”
“Soka’pii,” he said. “And this is what you wish to do in the country that the white man calls the Gates of the Mountains?”
“Yes.”
“And which mountain is it that you seek to find?”
“I wish I knew the name of it, but even my father never learned its exact identity—only its location. It is a mountainous area north of the town of Helena and above the Gates of the Rocky Mountains. It was an area once used by the Indians as a buffalo jump.”
“A piskan?”
“If that word means a place where the buffalo jump off a cliff to their doom, yes.”
“Aa.”
“Do you know of it? For if not, I do have a map of the place, and I can show you where it is.”
“Aa, a map would be good.” Simple words, yet something had suddenly changed about him. His voice had lowered or altered in some fashion, or had he merely hesitated ever so slightly? Whatever it was, she sensed that something was wrong, and she couldn’t understand exactly why. However, he was continuing to speak. “I think if you show me a map, I might know of the place, since I am familiar with that part of the country.”
“Oh, I wish I’d brought it with me. But I didn’t. We must meet again sometime today. I will show you the exact spot.”
“Is the place where you are going close to where we first met?”
“Yes, it is.”
Again, he hesitated, but the silence was hardly comfortable, and she longed to bring it to an end. Finally, he said, “Then I have no need of a map.”
“Nevertheless, I can show you the exact spot,” she argued. “Don’t you think I should?”
“Perhaps. You mention that, as an archaeologist, you dig up things from the past?”
“That’s right.”
“Is there a specific tribe you seek to find?”
“Yes. It is a mythological tribe, I’m afraid, one of legend. It is my hope to discover if the legend is true.”
“Perhaps I know of it.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But I do not believe that its origin is steeped in Blackfoot myths.”
“You may be correct,” he agreed. “However, I am aware of many legends—not only those of my people, but of other Indian tribes, as well.”
She glanced at him from over her shoulder. “Very well. I will tell you, but only if you promise that if I mention the name of the tribe, and perhaps a bit of the legend surrounding it, you will repeat this to no one.”
“You have my word.”
She studied his solemn expression warily. Could she trust him? Instinct said she could. However, the events of the past few days—including the intruder in the night—caused her to hesitate. At the moment, she trusted no one, not even her fellow companions.
Very well. She would be cautious.
Turning around so that her back was once again presented to him, she began, “In truth, it might be best that I tell you the particulars of the legend, since you will be involved in the expedition by association. I suspect it will be better that you know.”
“Soka’pii, I agree.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Have you ever heard of the legend of the Lost Clan?”
His fingers stilled in their work, the comb dangling limply in his right hand. Though no emotion stole over his countenance, it seemed to take him a moment before he could speak. “The Lost Clan? Aa, I believe that I have heard of this clan…and this legend…in my youth. Indeed, I believe I know a little of it…”
Chapter Nine
“How is it you have come to learn of this tribe?” Red Hawk asked Effie, once he recovered enough to speak. He wasn’t certain why her knowledge of his clan surprised him. He should have expected it—after all, his spirit protector had led him to this woman. Yet, hearing another person speak the name of his clan in the present—aloud, and in his company—was jolting.
Sitting with her legs folded in front of her, she had turned to face him. And she was glorious.
With her red hair framing her face and spilling out over her shoulders, she looked as though she were the stuff of legend. She was a small thing, at least in comparison to the women in his tribe, who were generally bigger boned and taller. But this woman was delicately framed.
Dainty brown spots, which he had once heard referred to as freckles, splattered across her nose. Her eyes, which in color resembled those of a doe, were clear, reflecting a sincerity he suspected was a part of her inner being.
At present, those light brown eyes looked anything but calm. She was on guard.
Nevertheless, she answered his question. “I know of the legend because an old anthropologist named Trent Clark once lived amongst the Indians in that area. He was told this story by a very ancient native. Before Mr. Clark’s death, he related the tale and solicited a promise from my father to search for evidence of the tribe. My father has been looking for signs and information of the tribe ever since.”
“Information?” asked Red Hawk. “Was your father looking for anything in particular?”
She sighed, and her glance fell to the ground. Absentmindedly, she ran her hand over the lush grass. But she didn’t answer.
It was then that he knew. Her father had been looking for something specific, and it was probably this that she, herself, was seeking.
He gently said, “What is it your father hoped to find that you must now pursue?”
She shrugged. Without looking at him, she answered softly, “Artifacts.”
“Artifacts? What are artifacts?”
She stared off into the distance, but went on to explain, “Artifacts may be many things—especially something that man made. Bits of pottery, arrowheads, paintings on caves or shaped bones—these are artifacts. A simple rock, made by nature, no matter how old, would not be an artifact.”
Red Hawk nodded. “And what did your father intend to do with these…artifacts? If he found any?”
“Prove that the tribe existed and learn more about them.”
“And did he?”
She started to rise. “Mr. Hawk, I really must go.”
He reached out a hand to detain her. Her eyes grew wide, as though astonished that he might touch her, and she stared straight at him.
His fingertips tingled at the contact. At once, he broke off his hold on her. “Do not leave yet. Perhaps I go too fast. ’Tis only that I think it best I know as much as possible about your circumstance. You have trouble, I think. I wish to help.”
“Help? Truly? I don’t know. It’s really a matter of trust, isn’t it?” she said. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Is the article you hope to find so valuable that you cannot tell me anything of it?”
She set her lips into a frown. “Mr. Hawk, you didn’t answer my question. How do I know I can trust you?”
He sighed. “You do not,” he answered honestly. “You will have to decide that for yourself…or not. As the old, wise ones in my country would say, you must trust to your heart.”
She hunched over, hands on her forehead, as though her thoughts were heavy. At last, she lifted her head. “I can’t do that. Not only my heart, but my mind must be involved in any decisions I make regarding this project. But I’ll tell you what I will do. I will strike a bargain with you.”
“A bargain?”
“A trade. If you’ll tell me why you are so interested in what it is I seek, I will tell you what it is my father and I hope to find. If we are, in fact, trying to find anything.”
Silence.
“And don’t say again that you wish only to protect me.” She raised her chin. “My father warned me long ago about people who have to p
roclaim their trustworthiness. Many times he said that if such people were really virtuous, why would they announce it hither and wide? A truly honest man doesn’t have to tell others about his integrity. He simply is honorable, and others recognize it.”
Red Hawk grinned at her. “That is good advice, and it was not in my mind to repeat myself.”
“Good. See that you don’t.”
What could he say? He couldn’t very well accept her challenge without cost to him, to his clan, to the Above Ones.
How could he detail his vision? For it was this that had led him to her. To tell another about it would break with tradition and render the vision worthless. Nor could he delineate the history of his life to her. Who would believe him?
After several moments passed, she at last said, “Check.”
“Check?”
“It is a phrase from a game, called chess. When one has his opponent cornered and unable to move, and yet neither one has won the game, the person says check. It is my belief, Mr. Hawk, that we both hold one another in check.”
He nodded. “I understand. You are saying that we neither one trust the other enough to open our hearts.”
“Yes.”
“Haiya, I must have time to think on your words. ’Tis not a small thing you ask of me.”
“Nor is your request of me. How much time do you require?”
“Until tomorrow night. I will give you my answer then.”
“Fair enough,” she agreed. “Tomorrow night, then. Where shall we meet?”
“I will come to your room.”
“My hotel room?”
“Aa.”
“But how? I don’t think the front desk would allow you up the stairs since you are not a guest.”
“I will be there.”
“Which means you know where my room is. How long have you known?”
“Long enough,” he answered.
“I see.” She cleared her throat. “Well, I thank you for your time.”
Again, she made to rise and leave. Again, a simple touch of his fingers on her arm detained her.
“Tell me one last thing,” he said. “That first time we met, you were with your father?”
