by Jodi Thomas
“Are you cold?” he whispered, pulling the blanket over them both.
“No,” she answered, as she looked up at him with eyes near panic. “I’m staying,” she repeated with determination.
Sloan laughed softly. “All right,” he answered. “I believe you.”
When she was almost asleep her mouth opened slightly and he played with her full lips with light kisses. She didn’t respond, but he knew she was aware of his kiss, for the pulse along her throat quickened.
With his arm circling her waist and her head atop his chest, he fell asleep. For once the nightmare didn’t bother him. Several times during the night, he reached for her, running his hand over her back, moving his face against her hair, closing his fingers over hers as they rested on his chest.
He didn’t remember her moving all night, but when McCall sat up suddenly, he also came full awake. Sloan blinked away sleep and looked around him. The children surrounded them. All were dressed, their hair combed and their faces scrubbed.
“How late is it?” McCall stretched.
“Barely dawn,” Sloan answered as Winter moved closer. The boy had plaited his long hair into two equal braids.
“We want to go home,” he said simply. “We’ve been ready since before first light. If our people are within a day of here then today is the day we will reach them. I could go slow, but I know my mother will want to wait no longer.”
“But what of Eppie?” McCall asked.
Winter folded his hands behind him as though he were the parent talking to a child. “Miss Alyce says we can make Eppie a bed in the wagon. If we leave one wagon here and we all walk, I think we can make good time. Eppie will be safe among my people. They will help her get back to her Moses tomorrow.”
McCall looked at Sloan.
Sloan shrugged. “It’s as good a plan as any I could come up with.”
“I can be ready in a few minutes.” McCall was already buttoning up the few buttons at the top of her collar.
“I’ll hitch the horses.” Sloan helped her to her feet as Winter translated to the others. They all ran to tell Miss Alyce and help break camp.
For a moment Sloan faced McCall.
“About last night…” he whispered.
“Don’t say anything,” she interrupted. “Last night can’t alter our original campaign. We don’t matter; only the children do.”
“If that’s the way you want it,” Sloan forced the anger from his voice, but his last word, though whispered, was a swear, “General.”
She squared her shoulders and moved away without another word. Sloan watched her go with his hands balled into fists inside his pockets. Someday, he thought, what happens between us will change everything. Someday soon. I swear.
Fourteen
THE SUN WAS low in the sky by the time the wagon neared where Sloan had seen the Indian camp. A long ravine ran across the open land, a shallow stream winding along its base. The survivors of the battle along the Washita were camped amid trees, camouflaged among white pine and cottonwood.
When Sloan saw the outline of the camp, he climbed down from his horse and walked ahead of the others with Winter by his side. He could tell they were Cheyenne. The chances were good this was Winter’s tribe.
“My people won’t shoot you if they see me,” Winter whispered. He was so excited he was almost dancing in circles around Sloan.
“They’ve been through a lot these past few months. My hope is if the pouch you made drew so much attention, maybe the sight of you will keep them from assuming I’m their enemy.” Sloan opened and closed his hands, feeling suddenly naked without his rifle.
“Eppie says they were mean to her, so it might not be my people. I’ve never known my mother’s family to be cruel to human or beast.”
Before Sloan could answer, shadows rose almost like smoke from the grass between them and the camp. Before he could have pulled his weapon a line of men blocked their progress. Each was armed and braced for battle.
Small groups of women waited just beyond, ready to run for the ravine if a battle erupted.
Sloan took another step, then another. He could see the men tensing, ready to pull bows but waiting for a command. Some already had their fingers around the handles of long knives they kept strapped to their legs in the manner Winter did. When Sloan was close enough to see the hatred in their eyes, they saw the children climbing from the wagon.
Suddenly the always quiet, solemn children were laughing and running. Fully armed warriors dropped their weapons and forgot about Sloan. The children’s shouts were echoed by others behind the braves. Where the men had to turn from war to joy, the women just beyond bore no such hesitation. They ran past the braves with their arms outstretched to catch their children. All at once the clearing was filled with crying and shouting and laughter.
Winter ran from one man to the other, greeting each in a way that told Sloan he’d known the warriors all his life. He stopped for a few minutes and talked with one older man, then ran to the group of women. Silently, amid the reunion, four men surrounded Sloan, boxing him into a prison. He glanced at the wagon. Several had done the same to McCall. The children might be celebrating, but he and McCall were still in danger.
The older man walked toward Sloan with a limp. His hair was almost solid white, but his body had not yet surrendered to age. “The boy told me you brought the children back to us. What price do you ask?” His words were broken and hard to understand but commanded attention.
Sloan kept his hands away from his Colt. “I ask no price.”
The leader didn’t believe him. He’d learned to hate the “yu ne ga” too much to trust Sloan’s words.
Sloan looked around at the four walls of warriors surrounding him. They were simply waiting for the order to kill him; he could feel it. Winter might believe his people were not capable of killing them, but Sloan had no such illusion.
Slowly, Sloan took a step toward the wagon. He wanted to get closer to McCall for two reasons. One, to calm her fears. And two, if they couldn’t talk themselves out of this, at least he could reach for his rifle and take a few men down with him. The human prison moved with him, allowing him progress but no freedom.
“Easy now, McCall,” he whispered as he reached the side of the wagon. “Don’t worry.”
“They don’t look too friendly,” McCall whispered back.
“Keep a tight rein on the horses. If trouble breaks, don’t worry about me, just get out of here as fast as you can.” He looked from face to face. None of the men understood what he was saying, and the older man, who seemed to be the leader, was several feet away.
“If any one of these men takes a step closer to me, do you think you could throw me the rifle, darlin’?” He smiled as if his words had all been sweet-talking her.
“My hand’s already on it,” she answered. “Alyce is kneeling just behind me with that extra Colt of yours. She’ll take down the first man who moves toward you.”
“That sounds great, but try to look relaxed. We may not have to fight our way out of this.”
The older man seemed to be arguing with two younger braves.
Sloan motioned with a slight nod of his head. “Looks like we’ve got someone in our corner; I just wish I knew which one.”
“Sloan!” Winter yelled from thirty yards away. “Sloan!”
Sloan turned as Winter barreled through the warriors and flew into his arms. He caught the boy in a bear hug as he’d done before when Winter needed him, without thinking that he was now off guard and unable to draw.
“What is it, son?” Sloan asked as Winter’s huge gulps of pain vibrated through his own chest and shook his heart with the boy’s anguish.
“She’s dead!” he cried as Sloan held him tighter. “My mother’s dead!” The words of two languages blended in sorrow. “She must have been dead before I reached the water that day. I’ve been thinking she was worried about me, and she’s been dead all this time.”
Sloan forgot about the men surroundi
ng him. He dropped to one knee and held Winter as tight as he could.
All the times Winter had been too brave to cry melted away as tears streamed down the little boy’s face. “One of the women said they saw her fall. She was shot in the chest and blood covered her, then a soldier rode by and put another bullet in her head.”
He wished he knew words to comfort. But how could he tell the boy that everything was going to be all right when it had never been more wrong?
“I didn’t look back when I heard the shooting. I didn’t look back. She might have been looking for me when she died. I didn’t think that one of the screams I heard could have been hers. I would have run back to be with her if I’d known.”
His words were a jumble of languages, but Sloan understood the sorrow. All of Winter’s energy had been focused on reaching his mother, and she hadn’t even been waiting for him.
Sloan held the crying boy as he fought back his own tears. The boy’s sobs filled the clearing and everyone around was shaken by his cries.
The warriors lowered their weapons and relaxed their stance as they stood watching, absorbing his sorrow like slow rain falling over them.
“Get out of my way!” Alyce Wren shouted as she pushed one of the six-foot braves aside as though he were a gate and not a wall. “Go find something to do and stop trying to frighten me.”
The man moved back.
Winter turned when Alyce called his name. He tried to stop the tears, but it was hopeless.
“Boy,” she looked right into Winter’s eyes, “you’ve got things to do before you let grief take you. I need to know if any of the others can’t find their parents. I’ll not leave them out here alone with no kin. Also, you’d better tell these kind folks fixing to kill us that we’re trying to help. There’ll be time for tears later. Right now I need you.”
Sloan stood beside the boy and put his hand on the thin shoulder. He wished he could tell Winter to go ahead and cry, but no matter how small the shoulders, they had to hold the load. “I’ll be right beside you, son,” Sloan whispered. “You can get through this. Miss Alyce is right; we’ve got to take care of things first.”
For the second time in his few years of life, the boy shoved the pain of a parent’s death aside in order to do what must be done. There was no doubt in Sloan’s mind that he’d be a strong man one day. He barely passed Sloan’s belt buckle, but he had a man’s job to do and he’d better do it fast or there would be more dead.
Winter moved among the children, then he spoke with the adults. Finally, he walked with the leader back to camp. The braves still watched Sloan and the women, but they kept their distance now and their knives were no longer drawn. Sloan tied his horse to the wagon and followed Winter.
By the time they were in the Indian camp, they were welcomed. The word had spread. Many women hugged Alyce and McCall, crying as they thanked them for bringing back their children. Eppie refused to leave the wagon and screamed for help every time one of the people tried to enter. She wanted nothing to do with these people, friendly or otherwise. Winter tried to explain to her that his people had thought she’d killed him and stolen the bag. She still couldn’t forgive the way they’d treated her.
They were invited to supper. To Sloan’s surprise, all the children except Winter gathered around them to eat, instead of mixing with their families. Winter had walked into the night with the leader. After they’d eaten, one by one the children said good night to them and left to join their families. Sloan knew he’d never see any of them again. Several gave him presents. Morning Dove gave him her most valued possession—her pouch of rocks.
When the leader returned to the campfire, he was alone. In his broken English he invited Sloan and the women to sleep in his teepee. Alyce refused, saying simply that she and McCall would sleep in the wagon with Eppie.
McCall looked at Sloan. He could still see the edge of fright in her eyes and guessed she wanted him close tonight.
“I sleep under the wagon,” he said slowly so the leader could understand the words. “I’m used to the open air.”
The leader nodded as if he thought them odd, but didn’t have time to try to understand.
When he turned to move away, Sloan stepped in his path. “Winter?” he asked. “Where is Winter?”
The leader pointed to the ravine and shook his head. “He would not come back. If you look, you’ll find him near the stream.”
Sloan glanced at McCall. Before he could say a word, she said, “No, I’ll not stay. I’m going with you.”
They walked together through the shadows of the trees along the shallow creek bed. Sloan took her hand, leading her slowly while he listened for any sound.
They must have walked a half mile before they heard the sound of something pounding the ground. Sloan motioned for her to be silent and they moved on.
After several more steps they came to a small clearing where Winter knelt. His back was to them, and again and again they saw him raise his knife in the air and strike the earth in front of him.
Sloan moved slowly around Winter’s side.
“Winter,” he whispered, not wanting to frighten the boy.
Winter looked up suddenly, his knife high in the air.
“Sloan?”
“Yes.” Sloan moved in front of him and knelt. “I was worried about you, son. It’s time to turn in for the night.”
“I’m fine,” Winter said as he drove the knife into the hole he was digging. “My mother’s dead.” The pain in his voice was liquid in the night air. In an hour the night would be frosty, but nothing would numb the boy’s heartache.
“Yes, I know.” Sloan watched the knife fall again. “What happened to her was wrong, very wrong.” How could he explain to this little boy that killings were done on both sides and there would be more before it was settled?
McCall knelt on the other side of Winter. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I’m digging a hole,” Winter answered and let his knife fall once more into the ground. “White Wolf tells me I can’t stay with The People any longer. He says I must go back to my father’s world. He says I’m not one of them anymore.”
“But…”
Winter’s blade hit the earth again. “He says the sun is setting on the Indian, but it is only rising on the white man’s time. He says my tomorrows have to be in my father’s world.”
Sloan rubbed his eyes. He could see the logic in the old leader’s advice. If Winter stayed here he might not live to be an adult, but if he went back he’d be going back to the very people who killed his mother. The old leader was sending the boy into the bear’s cave to sleep.
“He says I’m not one of them. He says I can’t be. Not ever again.” Winter raised his other hand. “He did this to me.”
Sloan reached out and took what Winter handed him. Hair. He looked closer. White Wolf had cut the boy’s braids just below each ear.
“I don’t want to go,” Winter whispered. “But I have no choice.” He took the hair from Sloan’s hand. “So I’m going to bury the Indian part of me in the earth where my mother is. One woman told me the soldiers came back and buried the dead at Washita. I’m never going to be of the people again, but I’m never going to be white, either.”
He shoved the dirt over his hair. “I belong nowhere.”
McCall gently placed her arm around his shoulder. “Yes, you do,” she whispered, but he was crying too hard to hear.
“Yes, you do, Winter,” she repeated over and over. “From this night on you belong to us.”
Fifteen
SILENTLY, SLOAN WATCHED Winter cry until there were no more tears in him, then he wiped his face with Sloan’s bandanna and swore, “I’ll never cry again. Not as long as I live.”
Sloan lifted him from the ground. Winter wrapped his arms and legs around the tall man as though he were hanging on during a violent storm. They walked slowly through the blackness of night back to camp. McCall followed so close beside Sloan her skirt brushed his pant leg with e
ach step. The wind howled in the trees and cool air circled around them, stealing warmth.
Choosing his footing carefully, Sloan knew if he tripped, they’d all fall. By the time they reached the campfires, Alyce Wren and Eppie were asleep. A few of the tribe members moved in the distance, banking fires for the night and securing boundaries.
Sloan lowered Winter onto his own bedroll beneath the wagon and stood. “In a minute or two he’ll be too much of a man to allow me to carry him.”
“He has had so much grief for such a little one.” McCall kissed Winter gently on the forehead and brushed the now short hair away from his eyes. “I don’t want him to think he doesn’t belong. He belongs to us, now, and always will.”
“He’s young and strong,” Sloan whispered. “He’ll survive. But as for belonging to us…” Sloan didn’t know how to say what had to be said without hurting her. She must be blind not to notice that he was on the run, avoiding invisible bullets until one day the real one came. What kind of father would he make for a boy who’d have more than his share of battles just because of his blood?
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t want him?” McCall seemed to be fighting to keep her voice low as she stood and faced Sloan. The wind whirled a single strand of hair across her cheek like one streak of war paint.
Her question demanded his full attention. Sloan jammed his fists into his pockets to keep from touching her. “I didn’t say that.” Sloan backed a step away from her and the wagon. “But children aren’t something you pick up along the road and decide to keep. Maybe we should look around for folks who want to bring him up proper. You know, with a farm and a school down the road.” He knew it would be a long shot, but they might find someone.
“You know as well as I do that most of the folks who’d agree to take him would use him as a slave until he ran away or died from a beating. I don’t know of a family that doesn’t have more kids than they can feed already.”
