"So what am I?" Skylar demanded.
Hawk lifted his hands and looked to Sloan as if he were again seeking the proper explanation. Then he stared at her and shrugged. "Property," he said complacently.
"You're not serious—"
"You will own the tipi," Sloan assured her, grinning.
"She'll have to make it first," Hawk reminded him. "And she'll have to remember as well that women have their place. They serve their men, then dine themselves."
"Oh?" she said.
"You may need to be careful. Wife-stealing does take place, though it is a shame upon those who indulge, unless, of course, a man is so powerful that the warriors around him are willing to let their wives go."
"There have been such occasions," Willow said.
"But sad ones as well!" Sloan commented. "Think of what it cost Crazy Horse when he fell in love and eloped with No Water's woman."
"Of course, he failed to pay No Water for the woman," Willow reminded them.
"Crazy Horse was shot in the face, and his family was shamed. Thankfully," Sloan said, "his family did not seek retaliation for the shooting."
"And neither was Black Shawl harmed," Hawk reflected, smiling at Skylar. "She could have had the tip of
her nose sliced off—it would have been her husband's right."
Skylar had had enough. She stood, angry with the lot of them. Hawk had been almost charming himself that afternoon. But no more. He, Sloan, and Willow might well be telling her the absolute truth, but in the telling, they were very definitely taunting her.
She tossed the rest of her coffee into the fire, dropped her camp cup, and started off on a walk toward the water.
"Skylar!" she heard Hawk call sharply.
She ignored his call, bristling as she hurriedly walked along the trail, pulling her cloak around her. The moon remained round, lighting the path well. Only the trees around her were shrouded in shadow. Not far ahead, she could see the glowing patterns of moonlight dazzling and rippling upon the stream by which they camped. The sky itself as well as the landscape seemed to be reflected there.
It isn't my world! she thought furiously. Damn him! She'd done her best, she was here. She'd come with him into uncivilized country. She'd been abducted by enemy hostiles. She'd even made the damned coffee.
She kicked the earth furiously.
She was still paying.
She reached the water's edge and squatted, scooping up a handful of the cool, clear water with which to bathe her face. Her touch broke the soft rippling reflection, sending small waves shooting out against the night-darkened stream. She cooled her cheeks again, wondering why she was so angry when they had all probably been speaking the truth. It was the way they had spoken it. So mockingly. No matter what price she paid, it didn't seem that Hawk could forgive her. Right now, she hated him because of it.
And she hated herself for caring.
The rippling waves she had created began to ebb. A huge, dark shadow suddenly appeared on the water. She watched the shadow in horror, panic rising within her. The Crow. The Crow were back again.. ..
She leaped up, a scream of terror forming in her throat.
She'd walked away again! God help her, couldn't she learn to be angry and stay where she would be safe?
She spun around, ready to lash out, scream—run.
"Skylar!"
Her scream faded. Relief filled her with such force that she trembled with it.
Hawk stood behind her, his shoulders broadened by his cross-armed, irritated stance.
"What?" she demanded, trying hard not to gasp or to betray how very afraid she had been. She kept her distance.
She saw that he was trying to control his temper, grating his teeth, relaxing his jaw once again.
"You can't keep walking off."
"There was little reason to stay," she replied.
He lifted his hands. "There are certain things which are true in Sioux society. I cannot tell you differently."
"I'm afraid I know nothing about making a tipi."
"We'll be staying in my grandfather's home." He stretched out a hand to her. "Come back to camp."
She didn't accept his hand. "I'm glad I'm not a Sioux," she told him coolly.
Again, she watched him struggle to control his temper. He dropped his hand and spoke with impatience. "Again, you fail to understand. We are all people. A Sioux wife is sought by her husband, cherished by him. Though mores may be different in different human societies, emotions remain the same. A wife cares for her husband and children; in return, she is defended. And loved. And her children will love her, and when she is widowed, her family will care for her, her husband's friends will give to her and honor her in his name. She is free to laugh, to excel in her arts, to seek to love and be loved. Know pride. She has little need for deception or cunning."
"Unlike a white woman," Skylar commented.
He said nothing.
"Unlike me."
He continued to stare at her. She fought the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks. She gritted down on her teeth, realizing with a flash of insight that she had actually hurt him first; she had attacked what he was. He had attacked in return. She wasn't up to the battle.
"I shouldn't have forced you to come," he said.
"But you did."
"You have a talent for goading my temper."
"You have a talent for goading mine."
"You chose to come west."
"Yes, but I—" she began, yet broke off quickly, not at all certain of exactly what she had been about to say.
"But you didn't choose me," he finished.
It wasn't what she meant at all but she couldn't seem to find the words to say so. Even when it seemed that peace between them was within reach, she somehow seemed to lose grasp of it. His fault as much as her own, her heart cried out.
"You're the one who doesn't want a wife," she reminded him lightly.
"But I've got one. And this is my life. Which you have chosen to join, since I did give you the opportunity to go back." Again, he stretched his hand out to her, palm upward. "Let's go back to camp."
She hesitated.
"Damn you!" he swore. "I offer you what I can."
"And maybe it is not enough."
"And maybe you'll have to give more to get more."
"What could I possibly have left to give?" she cried out passionately.
He arched a brow, startled. "The truth," he said simply.
"I haven't lied—"
"And you haven't given."
"You're wrong! I have given. I have given more than I had ever imagined I was capable of giving. There's nothing—"
"There's something. But I don't think even the Crows could torture it out of you." He lost patience and grabbed her hand, starting back along the trail toward their camp.
"The Crows!" she hissed. "You're probably far better at torture!"
' 'We do like to think ourselves superior to our enemies,'' he retorted.
"And am I your enemy?"
"You're my wife."
"But unwanted. So surely, there are times when you must forget that fact!"
He stopped walking so suddenly that she plowed into his back. The buckskin of his shirt smelled good. The feel of his strength, his warmth against her was still somehow reassuring in the wilderness despite the hostility of the words passing between them.
She stepped back, looking up at him, meeting his eyes, as he turned to her.
"Not for a second, my love. Not for a single second. And let me warn you. There'd best not be a single second you forget it either."
"Is my nose at peril?" she demanded.
He arched a jet-black brow. "Your nose? How ridiculous." He caught her hand, drawing her suddenly hard against him as he stared down at her. "Now, come along," he told her again. Then he smiled, a menacing glitter in his green eyes.
"Squaw!"
Seventeen
They reached the camp of the Crazy Horse people during the late after
noon of the following day.
For many hours before they had actually come upon the camp, Skylar had felt as if there were the slightest change in the breeze, as if the trees could see. Sloan assured her that they had been watched for a long while. Before they actually reached the camp, a warrior rode up to their party. He frightened Skylar because at first, to her, he looked just like the men in the Crow war party. Hawk seemed impatient that she could not see the differences in paint and manner of the Crow and Sioux, but Sloan assured her that men who had ridden with cavalry for years did not always learn the fine distinctions between many of the Plains tribes.
It seemed to Skylar that there were hundreds of tipis, lodges as Hawk called them, stretched out along the river. There would be hundreds of Sioux here. Indians. More than she had seen in all her life. She didn't want Hawk to know that she was afraid of his people.
But she was.
The warrior who had ridden out to meet them was his cousin, Willow's brother, Ice Raven. As they entered the camp, children gathered around them, scampering beside the horses, laughing all the while. Women, working by their tipis, cooking over fires, sewing hides, paused, looking up with the same avid curiosity. Men and women called out; Hawk, Sloan, and Willow responded. They stopped before a large tipi in the center of the camp. Hawk dismounted from Tor. Willow and Sloan followed suit, greeting the tall, straight man with long, iron-gray hair who stood there. He was old, Skylar thought. Very old, yet he appeared to be in good health. He was proud and dignified, captivating in his stance.
Hawk, Willow, and Sloan all greeted him the same way, taking his lower arms as he grasped theirs in return. Children, women, and some of the braves gathered around behind them. Hawk called out to some of the older boys, and they came over and took the cattle and ponies from their party. Skylar suddenly felt the old man's eyes on her. She returned his gaze, at a loss for what to do.
But by then, Hawk was beside her, lifting her from Nutmeg, speaking to the elderly man as he did so. He nodded gravely, watching her, then indicating the flap opening to the tipi. For the moment, Hawk's arm was around Skylar's waist; she hoped he would stay with her for a while.
"I have to go. You must stay with my grandfather while I'm gone."
"That's your grandfather?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"He's—fierce."
"He won't hurt you."
"I didn't say he would. I just... I don't speak any Sioux. Do you have to go now?"
Hawk laughed. "Now you're suddenly eager for my company?"
She flushed. "I—"
"You don't need to be afraid."
"I'm not."
"You'll do fine."
Hawk's grandfather stepped aside, and Hawk ushered Skylar into the tipi. He wasn't going to come in with her, she realized. He was determined to leave her to her own resources with his fierce-looking grandfather remaining at the entrance to the tipi. She straightened, still afraid despite herself. She was startled at first by the size of the tipi. Then she was further alarmed to realize that there were people inside it.
Indians.
An old woman with white hair sat near the center of the tipi. She sat not cross-legged but with her limbs folded beneath her. She sewed fine turquoise embroidery into bleached white buckskin. It would be a beautiful garment, Skylar thought. A robe of some sort or perhaps a dress like the ones most of the women were wearing. The old woman looked up at her. She nodded as if she had expected Skylar and was not alarmed or even disturbed by her presence.
Besides the old woman, there were children in the tipi.
There was a girl of perhaps eleven or twelve, a boy of maybe eight, and four very little children: one a baby in a cradle board, two toddlers, one a bit bigger. She wasn't even sure of the gender of the little ones, but as she stood there, the twelve-year-old girl offered a tentative smile, and the little ones, except for the babe in the cradle board, started coming toward her.
The girl's smile encouraged her. She ducked down, ready to greet the children.
They literally crawled on top of her. She laughed, falling back on the ground. One of the toddlers laughed with delight then as well, and the others joined in. She plucked up the erring fellow who had toppled her, setting him down at her side. The girl came to her then, smiling tentatively again, and speaking in her own language but making a drinking motion Skylar couldn't fail to understand.
"Water, yes, please," Skylar said.
Hawk's grandfather entered the tipi. He watched her, his eyes dark and fathomless, his face deeply lined by time and the elements. She drank the water offered to her from a gourd and thanked the girl and then Hawk's grandfather. One of the babies found a tortoiseshell comb in her skirt pocket. She drew her eyes from those grave ones of the old brave and showed the child what the comb did, laughing as she drew it through the babe's dark hair, then offered it to the little one. The child watched her with enormous, almond-shaped dark eyes. Beautiful eyes, in a face filled with wonder. Skylar bit her lower lip suddenly, remembering accounts she had heard of Indian babes being killed when the soldiers had triumphed over the bands. It had seemed so distant then, so real now. The children were beautiful.
No one had a right to slaughter innocents. Cherubs like these. Little ones who smiled, laughed, gurgled, reached out to be touched, expected love. She shivered suddenly. She looked up at the old Indian brave. And as he looked down at her, she felt that he knew what she was thinking. She couldn't talk to him; she didn't know a word of his language. But he seemed to understand her thoughts. He smiled, and somehow they communicated.
And she wasn't so afraid.
The old woman spoke very quietly to the man. He shrugged, then looked at Skylar again.
"Deer Woman would ask if you are you hungry if she could. She does not speak your language, and so cannot."
"No, I'm—" She broke off, startled. Hawk's grandfather spoke English quite well. Regaining her composure, she wondered if it would be rude not to accept something to eat. "Perhaps, I'm a little hungry. Only if it is no problem ..."
Her voice trailed as he turned back to the white-haired woman. She rose, setting her work aside, and left the tipi. Mie returned with a bowl filled with meat in a thick juice. Skylar thanked her and tasted the meat, hoping that she would find it good and that she wouldn't embarrass herself farther by choking it down—or worse, being sick.
The food was delicious. She arranged her legs beneath I km the same way she had seen the white-haired woman do ns she ate, aware that the children continued to play with In i comb as she did so.
Hawk's grandfather sat before his fire, gazing at her.
"Your feet are hurt," he said.
"Just a little sore."
"Deer Woman has salve for them."
Skylar straightened her legs so Deer Woman could reach her feet. As the woman gently tended to them, Hawk's grandfather continued to speak to her.
"You came from the East?"
"Yes."
"Married to Hawk?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I—I met Hawk's father there."
The old warrior nodded as if her explanation made perfect sense to him when no one else had ever really understood it. "David found you for Hawk."
"I—yes," she said simply.
The old man smiled.
"What do you think of us?"
The blunt question threw her. "I... I don't know yet. I have just come here. I know so little and I'm trying to learn so fast. I think the children are beautiful."
"Good. I am their great-grandfather. Four of the children belong to Pretty Bird, Hawk's cousin, sister to Blade, Ice Raven, and Willow. Two belong to their brother Red Fox, who died in battle."
"I'm so sorry."
"Thank you. So what do you think of us?"
"I think ... I think that I still have a great deal to learn. I know that Sioux must be brave, strong, generous, and wise. I hope that you'll be—generous with me. I—" She broke off again. "What do you think of m
e?" she asked him.
He was a great deal like his grandson—noncommittal. "I have much to learn," he said.
She smiled, lowering her lashes, nodding and accepting his words.
"What do you want me to think of you?" he asked.
"I—I want you to like me," she admitted.
"Because of Hawk?"
She looked at him, hesitated, then nodded.
He smiled and told her, ' 'My English is good. My grandson and my son-in-law taught me to speak English. I do not share the fact that I speak it often."
"I will never tell anyone," Skylar promised.
He nodded sagely, then shook his old head as if in dis- j'ust. "I'm glad that you wish to learn. The whites, they are so quick to judge us. They think of us all as one out here on the plains. They talk of us being savages. You cannot imagine the things that have been done." He lifted a hand, indicating the slim, immaculate white-haired woman with her neatly tied braids. "Deer Woman lived among our allies, the Northern Cheyenne. They are a people who call themselves the Human Beings, a fine people."
She smiled. "Naturally, they are a fine people. They are your allies."
"Yes. Good people. Our allies." He had a wonderful smile. A strange wisdom. He could laugh at himself while speaking the truth with all seriousness. "The whites often say that the Sioux are the most warlike tribe on the plains. We didn't seek war with them. There were things that we were promised. Certain lands that were to be ours until the grass no longer grew, the wind no longer drifted and bellowed over the plains, the sky was no longer blue. Cheyenne camped along the Washita at peace. The women worked with their awls; the men cleaned their hunting rifles. The winter snows were on the ground. Children played, babies cried. The white soldiers' bugles started to call. Their horses were racing through the snow, dozens and dozens of them. They pounded into the village, shooting, dubbing, setting fire to tipis. They didn't care if they shot warriors, ancients, children, women, babies. Deer Woman's daughter was killed with one child in her womb, one in her arms. The blood spilled over the snow in great pools. If we are savage, then what are whites? Deer Woman was left lor dead herself. There were few survivors. So you see, granddaughter, we are all many things, and I am glad that you have eyes to see beyond what one sees first."
No Other Man Page 24
