Badlands Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  Remembering Cooper waiting out in the elements, she washed her hair, soaped, rinsed and dried herself. Dressed in her wrapper, she dipped two buckets from the tub and opened the door to throw the contents out.

  Glancing to the side, she caught sight of Cooper beneath the corner eave of the house where the rain funneled down. He stood beneath the downpour, his face turned upward, foam rinsing from his hair and nearly naked body. The light from the doorway illuminated the curves and indents of his muscular form.

  He sputtered and shook his head, and the light caught his attention. He turned toward her, but Hallie was the one who froze as if she'd been caught nearly naked.

  She'd never thought a man could be beautiful. The closest thing she'd ever seen to a male form had been in the paint­ings at the Dageford Museum. She'd studied the likenesses a time or two, curious but not altogether taken. But Cooper was flesh and blood, light and shadows, sinew and muscle, and she could study him from now until forever and never tire of his masculine grace and beauty.

  Hallie shook herself from her reverie and dumped the pails. "Come warm up now."

  She poured hot water from the stove into the barrel and carried her things into the bedroom without looking at him again. Closing the door tightly, she combed the snarls from her hair and dressed.

  The sound of splashing water ceased, and minutes later he called to her. "I'm building a fire. Come get dry."

  She stepped out and sat on a chair near the fireplace. Cooper, wearing his buckskin pants and shirt, fed a few blocks of peat into the fire he'd started.

  "Did it feel good?" she asked.

  He turned, and his blue eyes were backlit by an internal flame. "Yes."

  His hair left a wet patch on the back of his shirt.

  "Oh, here." She left and returned with dry toweling and her comb and brush. Cooper accepted the flannel and dried his hair. He took the comb and impatiently worked at the length over his shoulder.

  Hallie brushed his hands aside and took the comb. A unique woodsy scent drifted to her nostrils. "What did you wash with?"

  "Yucca."

  "What's that?"

  "A root."

  She worked the thick mass free of tangles. "You're the first man I've known to have long hair."

  "It's troublesome. I've thought about cutting it."

  "But you haven't."

  "I am what I am. Cutting my hair won't make me any more white or any less red."

  Hallie slipped away and brushed her own drying hair in front of the fire. He sat on the floor, his wrists resting loosely on his knees, and observed her.

  "How did you come to be brothers with Last Horse?" she asked.

  "Is this the reporter asking?"

  "No. I just wondered."

  "I've lived with the Oglala since I was about eight."

  Hallie brushed her hair and listened.

  "My own father was a trapper, part French. He married my mother and took her up north. She was never happy. She was from the city."

  His hair had begun to dry and the fire ignited highlights in its length. He turned his back to the hearth and stretched out his long legs.

  "When I was born, he moved her to the territory, closer to civilization. My father lived in peace with the Oglala. They were our friends, the only family I ever knew. But my mother was miserable, so we moved farther and farther east, and eventually my father cut himself off from his livelihood. Once there was nothing left, she left him. He went east after her, leaving me with a family who ran a trading post."

  Hallie tried to comprehend the kind of life he spoke of, but couldn't.

  "He didn't come back, so I ran away to the land and the people I knew. Running Elk took me in as his own son, gave me shelter and taught me to hunt and trap. I grew to manhood among The People."

  "But you didn't stay with them."

  "I stayed with them until the whites drove them from their homes and hunting grounds," he said, anger lacing his tone. "I stayed with them until they were penned on a res­ervation like dogs."

  She turned from his contemptuous glare and regarded the crackling yellow and orange flames.

  "I can do more good for them here," he said more gently. "I claimed a land grant and sold years' worth of furs to start this company. From here I can provide food and cloth­ing for them."

  "I didn't realize," she said.

  Their eyes met in the flickering firelight. "I can take them supplies and see to it they're warm in the winter," he went on, his tone now carefully devoid of emotion. "But what I can't give them, what they need as much as any of those things, is their dignity."

  A responding sadness left Hallie bereft. The abandoned child he spoke of had grown into this capable, caring adult. This man of physical strength and determination possessed an overwhelming sense of loyalty that she could only hope to aspire to.

  No wonder he had no particular fondness for whites. No wonder he'd changed his mind about a city woman for a wife. No wonder she'd grown to appreciate the man she'd glimpsed deep inside. Even though she'd had a few minutes of doubt that day, Hallie didn't regret leaving the comfort and safety of her oppressive life back East. No longer was she merely reporting on life, she was living it. She wasn't experiencing exciting situations vicariously through words on a page, she was seeing them in living color!

  He stared into the shadowy room as though unaware of how much he'd revealed about himself.

  "I'll bet you have a lot of interesting stories," she said, to draw him out of his mood. "We could come up with some tales that would set the folks back East on their ears."

  "Your stories are better than mine," he amended. '"Hal­lie and the Grizzly."'

  '"Hallie and the Stone Creek Stage Robbers,'" she added, enjoying their warm camaraderie, and then thought of her earlier decision. "Cooper, I have to interview the brides. Can you take me to see them?"

  "I suppose so. They were something, weren't they?" He grinned as if remembering that day. "How about 'Life Among the Border Ruffians'? That's what the red-haired one called 'em."

  Thunder rumbled overhead. "How about 'Forty Days and Forty Nights'?" Hallie asked.

  "What's that?"

  "The rain." She laughed. "You've never heard of Noah?"

  "No."

  "Well, have I got a story for you."

  The following day the rain let up, but the wind grew cold. During lesson time, DeWitt showed up wearing a fur-lined jacket and slammed the door behind him.

  He ruffled Yellow Eagle's hair and contemplated Hallie. "Ferlie's heading out today."

  "Oh?"

  "This is your last chance."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I can't let him go alone. I'm riding with the stage as far as the Mississippi. You can pack up and come along if you want. I'll see that you get home."

  Surprised, she set down the slate she held. "I thought this was already decided," she said, glancing at Yellow Eagle.

  Assessingly, the boy watched her with wide ebony eyes.

  "You deserve a last chance," Cooper said. "It's getting colder every day. Looks like we'll have an early winter, and with all the moisture we've had, it could be a rough one."

  "I'll be inside by the fire, won't I? You're not going to toss me out in a drift."

  "What I'm saying is that this is it, Hallie. Last chance. Once winter sets in, you're here for good."

  She looked from Yellow Eagle's interested expression to Cooper's carefully bland one. "Well, we'll have Yellow Eagle reading and writing by spring. Just make sure you get the mail through so my father knows I'm all right."

  He didn't let it show, but she knew her words pleased him. His blue gaze touched her face with warmth. "I will."

  "How long will you be gone?"

  "A few days. I'd feel better if you stayed with Chumani while I was gone."

  She raised a brow in question.

  "Come." He gestured and led her outside the door with one hand on her upper arm. "There are the other men, Hal­lie. Once they know you're al
one at night…"

  She saw the picture. Remembering the way they'd ogled her at the trading post, and the manner in which Last Horse had raked her with his lecherous eyes, she didn't need any more convincing. "I'll take a few things and stay with Chu­mani."

  "Thank you."

  The warmth of his hand burned through her sleeve. "Thank you," she said. "You always think of my safety."

  His eyes dropped to her mouth and she caught her breath at the heat she read in their depths. His other hand bracketed her chin and raised her face to his.

  Hallie's heart set up a nutter. "What—?"

  "You could talk a man blind, Hallie."

  Her eyes widened and his face lowered.

  "I don't think—"

  "I don't care if you think or not. Just don't talk."

  Chapter Eight

  His lips claimed hers in a kiss that elicited sensations she wasn't prepared to deal with. She smelled the earthy yucca root in his hair and on his skin, tasted the man and felt the gentle kneading of his fingers on her arm. This time the kiss was more than an accident, more than a test: there was pur­pose behind it. Purpose…and fire.

  Curiously, she was sorry he was leaving—not because she'd be afraid, but because she didn't want to be left behind without him.

  An odd rush of loneliness enveloped her and she found herself returning the kiss, not caring if she shocked him or if she'd perhaps be sorry later, caring only that he'd be gone and this was what she'd have to remember.

  Her hand crept to his chest and she encountered the pouch he wore beneath his shirt. "What's in here?" she asked against his lips.

  "Sicun," he replied.

  "What?"

  "My spirit stone."

  "What—"

  He stopped the question with his mouth. She loved the warm, firm feel of his lips against hers. What would his cheek feel like if I reached up and touched it? She indulged herself, framing his lean jaw and delighting in the delicate scrape against her palm, aligning their mouths, holding him to her.

  He wrapped an arm around her back, easing her against him until her breasts flattened on the hard plane of his chest. Against them, his heart thrummed a steady beat.

  His tongue drew a line across the barrier of her lips. What would he taste like if I…? and she parted them, allowing him to penetrate her mouth the way his warmth and scent filled her senses. A curl of fire licked inside her.

  He made a sound deep in his throat and she didn't want to know what it meant. She didn't want to surrender this feeling. She didn't want to have this moment end and see uncertainty or regret pool in his eyes.

  Behind him the wind rose and fluttered a length of his hair against her cheek. She tucked it behind his ear, and he ended the kiss.

  The wind cooled her damp lips and she became aware of how warm and sensitive her skin had grown. All over her body she recognized the touch of her clothing against her tingling flesh. He held her shoulders gently between his strong hands.

  Another gust of wind flattened her skirts and whipped a long tress of her hair across her face. With masculine awk­wardness, he brushed it aside. "If you have a problem, send Yellow Eagle for Lowell Heckman."

  "Who?"

  "The smithy. I trust him."

  She remembered the black-haired man at the livery the day she'd arrived. He'd been surprised to see her, but not rude or leering like the others. She agreed.

  He took a few steps back.

  "Bye, Cooper."

  "Goodbye, Mrs. Lincoln."

  She couldn't resist a crooked smile.

  He plunged toward her, circled her waist with both hard hands and pressed a last spontaneous kiss against her lips. Seconds later she watched him cross the distance to the freight building and flipped a halfhearted wave at his back.

  Shaken to her toes, Hallie let herself into the house. With a curious expression, Yellow Eagle watched her cross the room. "Where were we?" she asked, trying to keep her voice from sounding as breathless as she felt.

  "We were doing s sounds."

  "Yes." She settled onto her chair.

  He had a dozen s's neatly chalked on his slate. "I know one."

  "What is it?"

  "Stupid." His black eyes met hers with a challenge.

  Undaunted by the contempt she'd come to expect, she returned, "Strong."

  "Sssss-snake," Yellow Eagle hissed, with as much venom as he could manage lacing his tone.

  She grinned in spite of herself. "Savor."

  He leaned toward her. "Spit."

  "Spellbinding." She didn't hear his next word, because her thoughts returned to the sultry kiss, Cooper's smoldering eyes and the sensations still shimmering inside. Her pulse had staggered and her heart had soared. These new feelings astonished her. She hadn't wanted him to go. But what did she want? What was there to want?

  He needed her to help him. And after that…

  Hallie turned back to Yellow Eagle. She wouldn't think about after that.

  Wiley Kincaid called on them at the soddy the next night. Hesitantly, Hallie opened the door. Even though he'd al­ways been a perfect gentleman, the thought of having him here with Cooper gone unsettled her. She couldn't very well tell him that they were alone, however. "Come in for tea." Hallie invited.

  "Cooper working?" he asked, glancing around.

  She met Yellow Eagle's eyes briefly. "Yes."

  Kincaid took the seat she offered. "I have a brother who's thinking about coming out here."

  "Oh?" She headed for the stove, but Chumani waved her back.

  "I sent a missive with the stage, explaining there's land available. I expect he might look it over come spring."

  "That would be nice."

  They sat awkwardly for a few minutes until Chumani brought the tea. Hallie poured, Chumani and Yellow Eagle took seats by the fire and she served them.

  "He has a family," Kincaid explained. "Missus and young 'uns and all."

  "My," she said, sitting across from him. "What would he do?"

  "Teaming earns ten dollars a day," he said.

  "What's that?"

  "Teaming. Hauling freight."

  "What Cooper does."

  "That's right."

  "Would Cooper hire him?"

  "I expect so."

  "Got enough whites in the territory," Yellow Eagle said in a condemning tone. "Soon we won't be able to see the sky."

  Kincaid frowned at the boy, but Hallie offered support, replying, "Does seem that way, doesn't it?"

  "Rain set me behind in getting my building started," Wiley said, changing the subject.

  "We have had our share, haven't we?" Their recent day in the rain was vivid in her memory. "By the way, I shot a bear."

  Kincaid's brown eyes widened and his cup stopped half­way to his lips. "You what?"

  "I shot a bear." She felt a little more secure having him think her capable.

  His disbelief showed in the way his forehead puckered between his brows. He looked to Yellow Eagle for confir­mation.

  The boy nodded.

  Hallie regaled him with the story, leaving out the part about why she'd been at the base of the butte and how Cooper had actually fired the deadly shots.

  Yellow Eagle grinned and turned away to poke the fire with an iron tool.

  "Where's the hide?" Kincaid asked.

  "I'm not sure."

  "Can I prepare it for you?"

  "Well, Chumani can show me—"

  "Oh, please let me. I'd like to."

  "Well…" She looked to Chumani, but the woman only nodded tolerantly. "All right."

  He set his cup down. "I'd best be headin' home. Thanks again."

  Hallie saw him off and picked up their cups. "Let's go over your letters before bed," she said to Yellow Eagle. "You've done so well with letters and sounds that we'll start putting words together next week."

  "And then I'll be able to read?"

  "In a very short time," she agreed, carrying their slates and handing him one. "I have more boo
ks in my trunk for this winter."

  "I'll still be an Oglala," he said, looking up at her, a belligerent scowl on his young face.

  Hallie glanced between Yellow Eagle and his mother and dropped to her knees on the rug. "Of course you will," she said softly. "No one is trying to make you a white person."

  From his doubtful expression, she had to wonder if he believed her.

  "Your uncle only wants you to be able to meet the whites on their own ground," she explained. "They place much value on the written word, and successful men need the power it gives them."

  "Power?"

  "Yes," she said with enthusiasm. "Power!" She fully understood Cooper's strategy now. "Many of the treaties have been broken," she went on. "Your people can't read what they're signing. The agents hardly care and if they do they have little control. But if the Indians themselves can read, well…" Her mind raced ahead. "They'd know what they were signing. They could communicate with President Polk. Why…" She looked up in surprise. "What if some could have college educations and become lawyers?"

  "Power," Yellow Eagle repeated thoughtfully, then picked up his slate. "Let's get on with it."

  The office in the freight building seemed enormous with­out Cooper there. Wanting to have the account books fin­ished when he returned, Hallie had spent every spare minute on them. She added up the last column of figures and dou­ble-checked her work. A sixth sense alerted her to another presence, and she glanced up.

  An Indian in leggings and a quill vest stood in the door­way. Last Horse. All the stories she'd read came to mind and Hallie's heart beat a little faster. "May I help you?"

  On silent feet he slipped into the room.

  "Cooper isn't here." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Rationally, she told herself he already knew Cooper wasn't there, and that's why he'd been bold enough to approach her.

  He stood at the corner of the desk without reply.

  She laid down her pen. "What do you want?"

  He stepped closer and she considered getting up and dart­ing away, but knew he'd be faster.