"He'll cooperate," DeWitt assured her.
Yellow Eagle said something in a tone that told her he had no intention of cooperating. DeWitt spoke back and the boy's face reddened. He refused to look at either of them.
"He will cooperate," DeWitt said pointedly.
Hallie didn't know which of them would be more difficult to work with; the contemptuous nephew or his obstinate uncle. But she'd gotten herself into this mess; she would get herself out of it. If earning her keep and being able to pay him back so that she could get home meant swallowing a little pride and adhering to his demands, she could do it.
He waited patiently.
"I'll teach him. And I'll do my best to put your books in order."
His massive shoulders seemed to relax, but it must have been the play of firelight. He gave a curt nod.
Hallie straightened her back and winced. DeWitt spoke to Chumani. She opened a few small bags and sprinkled a mixture into boiling water and placed a mug before Hallie.
"What is it?" Hallie asked, sniffing the steaming brew.
"Spignet root tea for your back," he replied.
Hallie sipped. "It's pretty good."
Chumani said something and Cooper translated. "Where are you from?"
"I'm from Boston."
They exchanged words. "Is Boston far?" Cooper asked for her.
"Yes. It's in Massachusetts, way to the east."
"The East has more white people than there are buffalo chips on the prairie," Yellow Eagle brooded.
Hallie ignored being compared to a buffalo chip. "Why do you say that?"
"So many whites have come that there are no hunting grounds left. And more come still. The East must be crowded with your kind."
Hallie glanced from Yellow Eagle to DeWitt and back. "The cities are crowded, yes. There are so many buildings that you have to look straight up to see the sky. I never saw the sky in all directions until I got here."
"After all the whites build their houses and stores, it will be like that here, too," Yellow Eagle said.
Hallie couldn't imagine there being enough people to fill up the vast open spaces of the badlands she'd seen on her journey. "Oh, I don't think so," she said. "And the people have so many exciting things to bring with them."
"We don't need anything the whites bring." Yellow Eagle's expression was scornful, DeWitt's downright provoked. Hallie felt as if they'd ganged up on her.
"What about printing presses and books?" she asked.
"The Sioux passed down history and legend long before the whites came," DeWitt commented in a flat voice.
"Tools," she added.
"They made their own." His eyes narrowed in a contemptuous expression. "Don't forget soldiers."
"Doctors," she supplied. He couldn't deny modern medicine was a benefit to mankind.
"The Sioux have their own medicine men. How's your back?"
She arched it gently, and realized with surprise that the ache had disappeared.
"Don't forget whiskey," he said. "And smallpox and cholera. As many of The People have died from your diseases as by your guns."
Hallie couldn't think of a reply. She'd been made to feel unwelcome from her very first step in this land, and every word he spoke intensified that feeling.
Chumani said something in her language and Yellow Eagle translated. "Where are your people?"
"Family," DeWitt clarified.
"In Boston. My father and brothers run The Daily, a newspaper. My mother…" Hallie paused, wondering how to explain her mother to these people. "My mother runs the house."
DeWitt spoke to Chumani at length. She signed back.
"Your mother taught you to cook and sew?" he asked for her.
She lowered her eyes from DeWitt's. So much of what they said, so much of their resentment toward her seemed motivated because she was white. What sense did that make? "No. We have servants who cook and our clothing is made at a dressmaker's. Mother oversees those things and does charity work."
Cooper listened to her explanation of her family without surprise. Pampered city women were sorely out of place in this land. What had he been thinking of in sending for one? Perhaps it had been for the best that Tess Cordell had changed her mind and gone to Philadelphia. He would have to think long and hard about placing a new ad. He didn't have any more choice now than he'd had then, however.
He still needed someone to teach the boy and help with his business. Maybe there would be enough time for this young woman to accomplish both of those things. He had her over a barrel, actually. She was broke and helpless, and he was her only source of help and protection.
"Are you ready for sleep?" he asked, noting her growing weariness.
She nodded and helped Chumani pick up the dishes. He had to admit she dug right in and helped with the chores and meals—part of that fierce sense of independence she waved like a banner. She didn't like being dependent on him. She would do whatever it took to get away from here.
"Come." He waited while she said good-night to Chumani and Yellow Eagle, and led her to the house. She walked close at his side in the darkness, her skirts brushing his trouser legs. The mysterious rustle of whatever she wore beneath created a foolish leap of sensation in his stomach. She was the first young white woman he'd had contact with in over twenty years. He didn't know how to talk and act around her and he didn't like the fact that he was wondering. She meant nothing to him. She stood for everything he hated.
A coyote howled and she grasped his arm with a sharp intake of breath. The shiver of pleasure that ran across his shoulders was entirely against his will.
One hand clung to his bicep through his shirt, the other his bare forearm. Her soft breast pressed against his upper arm. He turned his face and the top of her head came just below his chin. He'd smelled her before. The day she got off the stage. The same night, when he'd ushered her into the house. But he'd never been this close, never smelled her and felt her at the same time. Her clothing was cedar scented, and she emanated a soft, powdery, flowery smell he couldn't define. Tonight those scents combined with wood smoke and woman, and he didn't like his physical response one bit.
"What was that?" she asked.
"A coyote. They only come in close if we have game hanging in the smokehouse. No need to be afraid."
She seemed to realize what she'd done, and let go quickly. "I'm not afraid."
Cooper could still feel the touch of her soft hands on his skin, the warm press of her flesh against his arm. He didn't want to have a reaction to this woman, but she was a woman after all, and he was a man. Her cultured speech and delicate white skin only proved her unsuitability to this land and to him. They didn't make her any less appealing; in fact, as long as he was being honest with himself, part of her appeal probably stemmed from that untouchable quality.
Two weeks and then she'd be gone. He hoped he could continue to deny his attraction until then.
He opened the door and she followed him into the dark room. Cooper struck a flint and lit the oil lamp on the table. He handed her the flint box, their fingers touching briefly. "Can you find the lamp in the other room?"
"I remember where it is. Thank you."
"You can start Yellow Eagle's lessons in the morning. Will half days give you enough time?"
"I don't know." Her eyes were huge and dark in the shadows. "I've never taught anyone before. I can probably teach him to read in the mornings. Perhaps we could go over the morning's lessons again before bed each night."
He didn't like the direction his thoughts took when she innocently mentioned bed each night.
"This is so very important to you?" she asked. "That he learn to read and write, I mean. So important that you wanted someone besides yourself who has only a few hours to teach him?"
Cooper was glad for the distraction. "The Sioux are being forced to sign away their land in trade for food and the meager provision of the reservations. Those who can adapt and survive in the white man's world will have a chance
for a better life."
"I never knew…I mean, I never thought about what it must be like for the Indians…."
"Few whites have, Miss Wainwright."
"The papers print stories of hostile Indian attacks and innocent women and children being killed. There are hundreds of dime novels about the renegade savages and the heroic efforts of the soldiers."
"Who writes them?" he asked.
Her level gaze faltered to his chest, then quickly returned to his face. "White men."
"There might be some truth in them," he said.
Her expression grew thoughtful, drawing his attention to the full lower lip she held between her teeth. She was lovely. And feminine. And so out of place here. "Good night, then."
She seemed to rouse herself from her thoughts, gathering her skirts and turning. "Good night, Mr. DeWitt."
She entered the bedroom. The lantern light flickered on the walls a moment later and the door closed. Cooper took his guns apart at the table, cleaned and oiled them. Time and again he found his attention wandering to the closed door. He tried to concentrate on his task, but instead imagined her removing her clothing and getting into bed. The light under the door disappeared.
He was getting what he wanted without any entanglements. She would teach Yellow Eagle to read and set his company in order.
Things could still work out for the best. He could get the help he needed and not have a city woman underfoot for good, after all. A woman like that was the last thing he needed in his life. Thank goodness he'd been able to realize it before it was too late. Tess Cordell had done him a big favor.
The sound of horses and shouts woke Hallie before dawn the next morning. She washed and dressed in a skirt and blouse, her arm and shoulder muscles screaming. They ached even more when she quickly rebraided her hair and wound it in a knot on the back of her head. The sounds were still loud as she hurried through the outer room.
She lit the lantern, discovering DeWitt's fur pallet empty, as though he'd just sprung from it. She hurried out.
Just southwest of the house, startlingly vivid in the early light, a dozen Indians sat atop horses. A few raced back and forth between the house and the gathering. All of them had long black flowing hair and wore thigh-high leggings with breechclouts. Some were bare chested, others wore quill vests, and one sported a flannel shirt.
Hallie tried to take it all in at once—the beaded bands and feathers, the assortment of muscular horses and wild men.
Running back into the house, she looked about wildly, finally noticing a revolver lying on the table. She grabbed it and ran back out.
Her attention centered on the man standing on the ground in front of the gathering—Cooper DeWitt. He wore nothing but a scrap of leather around his hips, a flap barely covering his buttocks, exposing acres of solid flesh and muscle. His long hair, unbound, whipped in the wind. In his hand he held a rifle.
Hallie raised the gun and walked closer.
One of the Indians got off his horse, noticed Hallie and stared. His jet hair was banded across his forehead with a beaded strip of leather. A tiny buckskin pouch, no more than an inch in diameter, hung on a thong against his chest.
Several of the Indians on horseback whipped arrows into their bows and aimed.
DeWitt turned and discovered her. He raised a hand and spoke rapidly to the Indians. "Go back in," he said to her.
"But—"
"Where did you get the woman?" the broad-chested Indian in front of him asked. He was as muscular as DeWitt, the corded thighs astride the horse as thick as small trees. A leather strip strained against his powerful bicep and Hallie imagined the strength with which he could use the knife and hatchet on his belt.
Surprised at his near perfect English, Hallie answered herself. "I'm meeting my husband here and we're going on to Denver."
The self-preserving lie fell from her lips easily. Something in DeWitt's blue eyes flickered. "Give me the gun," he said, reaching toward her.
"Trade," the Indian said. "Her for the prisoner."
His assessing black eyes swept her body and Hallie suppressed a shudder at the thought of being his prisoner. She shot a questioning glance back to DeWitt, reassuring herself he wouldn't do such a primitive thing.
He met her gaze, his open palm still waiting.
For the first time, she noticed the white man slung over one of the horses, his wrists and ankles bound. Above the bandanna that distorted his cheeks and hid the lower half of his face, distressed brown eyes stared back at her.
DeWitt was still waiting for the gun.
Why didn't he let her help protect them? He merely gestured with his open palm again.
Hallie eyed the prisoner, the Indian on the ground and those with their bows and arrows ready. DeWitt had cared for her mosquito bites, had been concerned enough with her welfare to house her under his roof. He'd instructed Chumani to give her healing herbs for her back. He needed her to teach Yellow Eagle. He would not turn her over to this Indian.
Left without a choice, she handed him the gun.
The Indians chuckled among themselves, placing their arrows back in their quivers. The one in front of DeWitt spoke, and he answered.
"Cut him down and come eat," DeWitt said.
The Indian gestured, and two braves cut the prisoner down. Immediately the man reached up and yanked the bandanna from his mouth. He rubbed his wrists and stumbled forward as though the circulation in his feet had gone. "I thought I was a dead man," he said.
"I'm sorry," DeWitt said, and reached to steady him. "I apologize for my brother. Last Horse doesn't trust strangers."
Hallie comprehended his words slowly. His brother? His brother? DeWitt turned fully toward her for the first time, and her confused gaze lowered to his broad chest. He too, was wearing a tiny pouch on a leather thong, which lay against his smooth brown skin.
Without reservation she allowed her gaze to drop to the scanty leather covering, down to his bare feet and back. Up past those thick bare thighs and smooth hips, almost expecting to see scalps hanging on his belt. Up beyond his chest to the wild mane of hair that hung over his shoulders and down his back. For the first time she realized who he was—what he was. He was one of them.
Beneath that sun-burnished tan, his skin was as white as hers. But he was one of them. The things he'd said that made no sense before were perfectly plain now. He'd slept on the ground most of his life. He resented the encroachment of civilization. He resented her. He spoke the Indians' language and made their signs.
He was one of them.
Chapter Five
The tall man with the chafed wrists composed himself and nodded at Hallie. "Wiley Kincaid, ma'am. I'd tip my hat, but one of them's got it."
DeWitt shouted something above the Indians' laughter. A brave on a brown-and-white-spotted pony rode forward, swept off a black hat and smashed it down on Mr. Kincaid's head. The others laughed and the brave galloped back into the gathering.
Wiley Kincaid yanked the hat off and looked it over, working dents from the crown, brushing at the fine felt. As though satisfied that no real damage had been done, he placed it on his head, only to remove it immediately and bow. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs.—"
"Lincoln," Hallie said, concentrating to keep the corner of her lip from twitching.
"Mrs. Lincoln," he replied. "Any relation to the Lincoln practicing law in the States?"
Hallie waved her hand. "On my husband's father's side somewhere," she said dismissively. "Such a mess this war with Mexico, isn't it?"
DeWitt's irritated expression nearly made her laugh aloud. "My husband is quite a bit older than myself, the dear sweet man," she cooed. "I'm afraid he keeps awfully busy setting up camps and ordering detachments about, you know, all those positively achingly dull things." She slipped her arm through Kincaid's and flashed him her most radiant smile. "And what is it you do, sir?"
"I was a tanner for several years. Not so many pelts anymore, so I'm making h
arnesses and saddles."
"A tanner. Now, doesn't that sound fascinating! You will have to tell me all about it."
He flushed, succumbing to her charm. "Yes, ma'am."
"Where's your rig?" DeWitt interrupted.
"They came up on me about fifteen miles from the station. My horses and wagon are back there."
"After breakfast I'll ride out with you," DeWitt offered. Hallie had to pull her stubbornly disobedient gaze from his nearly naked body. He entered the house briefly and returned clothed.
She realized Last Horse was following them around the log house and scurried ahead, shooting into the soddy ahead of them. "Mr. DeWitt is bringing company to breakfast," she told Chumani. "And one of them is an Indian!"
After the foolish words were out of her mouth, she was glad Chumani couldn't understand her. Hallie grabbed tin plates and hurriedly placed them around the table.
The men entered the soddy. Last Horse stared at Hallie, his black eyes raking her body from head to foot. With a predatory glitter, his gaze rested openly on the front of her shirtwaist. Heat seared her neck and cheeks. She'd never been ogled openly and in such a rude manner until she'd reached this godforsaken country. Neither had she known men could be so crude. She'd read stories about savages carrying off women settlers, and realized even DeWitt's attempt at protecting her with a fictitious husband would be no deterrent to a lawless man.
Discreetly, DeWitt placed himself between her and the Indian.
Mr. Kincaid pulled out her chair. She gave Last Horse her haughtiest rebuff and sat, DeWitt taking the seat beside her.
Chumani served fried bread with potatoes she had pulled from the fire and peeled blackened cornhusks from. It was obvious that she was used to visitors. Kincaid received her usual gracious smile.
Kincaid cast Last Horse wary glances as they ate, but the Indian ignored everyone and wolfed down his food without using the bone utensils. Chumani, too, gave Last Horse careful consideration.
"Looking for a place to start a harness shop?" Cooper asked.
"Might be. Are there logs available?" Mr. Kincaid asked.
Badlands Bride Page 7
