Badlands Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  She curled her chilled fingers instinctively. "No."

  They had been right. Every so often near one of the mounds of earth, she discovered a rock or two that had been pushed up from the ground by the burrowing animals. An oval one about an inch long with a shiny pink streak running through it caught her attention. Maybe she'd see a better one. She dropped it into her pocket and continued her search.

  Most were plain. One had a sparkling vein across the tip, but she was drawn back to the oval one. Something about it appealed to her and she tested its comfortable weight in her palm.

  Carrying it to Cooper, she said, "I like this one."

  He looked at the stone in her palm and a surprised ex­pression crossed his features. Yellow Eagle joined him and they pored over it approvingly.

  "Is it a good choice?" She took it back, still warm from his hand.

  He nodded. "Tomorrow we'll ride to the reservation. But you'll need a warmer coat and some gloves."

  "Where will I get them?"

  "We'll make 'em," he replied matter-of-factly.

  That afternoon Cooper did the measuring and cutting. By evening, with Chumani and Cooper supervising, the four of them stitched furs and leather.

  Pulling the bone needle through the tough hide took strength, and Hallie's fingers quickly became sore. In her clumsy efforts, she gave herself a good poke and yelped, automatically raising the finger to her mouth.

  "Let's see." Cooper stood over her, one palm out­stretched.

  She held her hand toward him. Crimson blood oozed from the hole. He plucked up a scrap of soft leather from the pile near his chair and pressed it against the tip of her finger, squeezing firmly.

  Their eyes met and Hallie thought of touching him the night before, remembered how he'd granted her the privi­lege of learning the texture of his skin, the tone of his mus­cled arms and chest. The same thrill ignited in her chest at the memory, and beneath his frank blue gaze her skin grew warm. If Chumani and Yellow Eagle hadn't been sitting close by, she'd have been tempted to try that all over again.

  He removed the leather and examined the tiny wound, which was no longer bleeding. "Wash it good," he advised.

  She nodded, absorbed by his nearness, his heat, the musky scent of leather and man that was his alone.

  "Hallie stand," Chumani said. She carried the back piece.

  Hallie tore her gaze from Cooper's and stood with her arms out so Chumani could measure the garment against her back. By bedtime the coat, gloves and hat were finished.

  "We worked through lesson time," Yellow Eagle said.

  Hallie wondered if that could have been disappointment she'd heard in his voice. "Your writing lesson time," she said. "But all of you taught me how to make winter cloth­ing."

  Yellow Eagle grinned. "So it was a lesson after all!"

  Chumani gave her a warm smile, then led Yellow Eagle out the door. Hallie tried out her new coat on her trip to the privy. When she returned she saw that Cooper had cleaned up the bits of fur and thread.

  She hung her coat on the antler rack near the door and stared at it for a long minute. Glancing around the room, she remembered her first impression of the house. She'd taken its comfort for granted these past weeks, but it had been built with Cooper's mail-order wife in mind. Her coat hung where he'd planned his bride's to hang. She ate at the table and slept in the bed he'd built for the woman he'd been anticipating.

  Considering the disappointment Hallie had been, he'd treated her magnanimously. She warmed her hands near the fire.

  He sat on the hearth and lit his pipe.

  "Thank you," she said, without looking at him.

  "For what?"

  "For the coat. For everything."

  "It's not much compared to what you're used to."

  She turned her head and observed him. He studied his pipe bowl. "What do you think I'm used to?"

  His gaze flicked over her skirt and her soft kid boots. "Nice things. Things city women like. You had jewelry before it was stolen. Your clothes are well made. I've never even seen some of the fabrics before." He bit the pipe stem. "Your father has money."

  The firelight created prominent shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. Hallie remembered how that skin had felt beneath her palm. She clasped her hands tight so she wouldn't be tempted to place the tip of her finger on that appealing dimple in his chin. "Money can buy more jew­elry," she said on an exhaled breath. "But there are things…important things it can't buy."

  He turned to her, his narrowed eyes nearly silver. "Like what?"

  "A lot of things. Why do you look so unbelieving?"

  He tilted his head. "I didn't expect those words from you."

  "We city women are pretty shallow, huh?"

  He shrugged and a minute later asked, "What have you wanted that you couldn't buy?"

  She considered all the things she'd wanted, the credibility she'd fought tooth and nail for her whole life, the respect­ability she craved. She replied simply, "A chance."

  "A chance for what?"

  She shrugged. "Opportunities are for men. I never got a second glance."

  "I can't believe that."

  "You see?" she said, and ducked her head in exaspera­tion. "You're such a man."

  "Shall I apologize?"

  She couldn't help a half grin. "No." Then with a rueful tone she added, "Maybe that's what irks me most."

  "That I'm a man?"

  She smoothed her skirt over her knees unthinkingly. "It's a man's world."

  "Men wouldn't be here without women." His tone was matter-of-fact.

  "Not a popular thought back East." A vivid memory came to her and she studied the glowing embers. "When I was ten my brothers brought me a puppy, light brown with soft floppy ears. I thought it was the cutest thing I'd ever seen. Charles told me I could name him anything I wanted because he was truly mine. Turner said it was a big respon­sibility and that the pup depended on me for food and care."

  Hallie glanced at Cooper. He rested comfortably against the stones, and she could tell by the way he studied her and listened that he was interested.

  "I felt so important thinking that little dog was mine and only mine, and that he depended on me. I must have thanked my brothers a hundred times the first few days. They rarely paid me any attention, so a gift like that…well, it was spe­cial."

  A curl of aromatic smoke drifted between them.

  "And then one morning I discovered them carrying bags to the foyer. My father and brothers were taking a trip to­gether. I want to go, take me, please can't I go?' I begged."

  Cooper turned to study her in the firelight. Her voice had become childlike and a slight quiver betrayed the story's importance.

  "Dusty—that's what I'd named the puppy—needed me, Turner said. He was my responsibility and I had to stay home and care for him. They loaded their bags in the car­riage and drove away." She composed herself and her voice took on a deliberately calm tone. "I never came so close to hurting an innocent creature as I did that dog. I hated the sight of it. It was a payoff, a bribe to keep me from under­foot. Instead of kicking it, I gave it to the cook and she took it to her nephew across town."

  She shrugged as if she was over it, as if the incident had been a long, long time ago and didn't affect her anymore, but he knew better. That gift had been a betrayal. What she'd believed her brothers had done out of love, they'd done as a conspiracy to pacify her.

  "That wasn't the first time," she said. "I was just too young to realize it before. And it wasn't the last."

  She met his eyes and hers held a sheen of tears.

  "That's why I'm here, really," she said. "My father never came right out and ordered me away from the paper.

  I think if it wasn't for Charles and Turner, he would have appreciated me. At least, that's what I want to think. They tolerated me," she went on, "for years. I hung around, al­ways underfoot like a pet. I absorbed the business, learned it all by watching and jumping at the least little opportu­nity."

>   She shifted her legs from beneath to her side. "I told you I was a reporter? Well, that was wishful thinking. I'm just a nuisance."

  Cooper knocked his pipe out against the stones. Her sto­ries had changed since she'd first arrived, and had been quick to relate various women's accomplishments. He un­derstood now why those examples were important to her. They gave her hope.

  Gathering her skirts, she stood. "It's late."

  "They treated you wrong, Hallie," he said.

  She stopped and listened.

  "Don't give up."

  She contemplated him with a quizzical expression.

  "You have a strong spirit," he said. "I don't think you'd be you if you changed to suit them."

  "Being me isn't so great," she said. "Sometimes it's downright tiresome."

  He grinned. "Well, don't change for anybody."

  "Thanks, Cooper."

  "It's getting so cold, we're going to have to start making you a fire at night," he said, changing the subject.

  "But you'll burn twice as much wood."

  "Can't be helped." Their gazes met, then skittered away. The only way to conserve fuel was to sleep in the same room, and that was out of the question. "I'll start one."

  She followed behind, handing him sticks and finally a log that should last the night. She'd learned how to handle chores competently and efficiently. No doubt she'd be doing it herself by the following night. She caught on fast and never shirked a chance to try something new. Hallie was a wonder. A bundle of spontaneous thoughts and actions. A practical, intelligent beauty. How quickly he'd grown ap­preciative of her company.

  How discouraging that she'd be leaving after winter. "Good night, Hallie."

  "Good night."

  He left the room and closed the door. With a hollow spot yawning in his chest, Cooper put his pipe away and made his pallet. Might as well take his swim now and get it over with.

  He didn't know which disturbed him more: the feelings her kisses and touches had aroused the night before or the gut-deep awareness carved by her honest admissions and the insight into who Hallie really was. He understood a little better, had a deeper comprehension of what had compelled her to throw caution to the wind and take her chances in the Dakotas.

  Dawning understanding only made it worse. He respected her now. He admired her.

  But worst of all—he desired her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bundled in her new coat, hat and gloves, Hallie stayed warm despite the living presence of the biting wind. Chu­mani traveled with them, chattering to Hallie in Oglala with a few words of English thrown in. Hallie understood her happiness to visit her family and friends.

  Crates and barrels filled the wagon bed, but Cooper had left space behind the seat for Chumani and Hallie. Yellow Eagle rode on the seat beside his uncle.

  Puffy white clouds in military array filled the northern sky, a sharp contrast to the beds of twisted and scarred rock shapes the mule team carried them past.

  "What is this?" she breathed in wonder.

  "Lignite," Cooper replied.

  "It's been burned?"

  "In ancient times. I heard one old trapper call it 'hell with the fires out.'"

  "It makes me wish I was an artist."

  "It's not that pleasing to the eye," he said.

  "No. But it grips the soul, doesn't it?"

  Without reply he turned and gave her a thoughtful glance.

  "It's incredible to see this much space in all directions." She raised her face to the sunny expanse. "No houses, no lampposts, no buildings or boardwalks or telegraph wires. Nothing that belongs to anyone."

  "Here nothing belongs to anyone and everything belongs to everyone." Cooper adjusted his hat against the wind.

  "That's quite poetic," she called up to him above a howl­ing gust. "Maybe you'll take to writing now that you have the skills."

  He laughed. The rare sound soared across the landscape and echoed back to lodge in her heart. Chumani gave her a sly, knowing smile before turning her attention to the ho­rizon.

  The scenery turned to bare brown hills as they approached the reservation. Hallie pulled herself to her knees and gasped at the encampment of enormous tepees with smoke curling out the tops. A harvested field stretched to the north. Several dogs barked and ran to greet them.

  Hallie regarded the patch of land that had been assigned to the Oglala. "It's not what I expected."

  "What did you expect?" Cooper asked.

  "I don't know. Something more like a fort, I guess."

  Several shouts rang out and children came running. Yel­low Eagle leapt from the seat and met them. The youngsters stood in round-eyed anticipation and waited for Cooper to set the brake handle and climb down. He reached for a bur­lap bag beneath the seat and withdrew handfuls of licorice sticks.

  Young voices exclaimed and the children thrust eager hands forward. After he rewarded each of them with a piece of candy, they thanked him and ran back toward the village, Yellow Eagle in their midst.

  Hallie and Chumani stood, and Cooper assisted them from the wagon, one at a time. Several men arrived and helped him unload, carrying the supplies to a clearing in the midst of the tepees. Hallie followed. Women appeared and looked on as the men unpacked bags of cornmeal, dried fruit and a crate of bear meat.

  At the sight of the meat, their eyes widened. They talked rapidly among themselves, and then to Cooper. He gestured to Hallie.

  The Oglala looked at one another. A few whispered and several smiled. Cooper answered more questions, and the men nodded at her sagely.

  While the supplies were distributed, Chumani took Hallie into one of the enormous tents and introduced her to an elderly woman. Before long, Cooper came for Hallie and led her to another tent.

  "This is Running Elk, my father."

  The man he introduced had gray hair, longer and thicker than Cooper's, flowing over a shaggy buffalo robe he wore around his shoulders. Running Elk made the sign for her to sit, and she settled near the fire.

  A stoop-shouldered woman brought them wooden bowls filled with dried berries and tough strips of salty meat. "Your mother?" Hallie asked.

  Cooper shook his head. "Laughing Woman died several years ago. This is Running Elk's new wife, Miya."

  After they ate, Hallie picked up on bits and pieces of the conversation in which Cooper told his father about her. Run­ning Elk spoke to her, and Cooper translated. He shared stories of Cooper as a boy. By the age of twelve Cooper had been as good or better with a bow and arrow than most of the warriors. His skills with his knife were a fond mem­ory for the old man.

  "He says my mother died young because she wore herself out making me bigger clothes." Cooper listened a minute. "He says he would sometimes get up at night and watch me grow in my sleep."

  Hallie looked from Cooper's face to the old man's. His teak-colored cheeks were lined, but his black eyes shone like a child's. He watched her, gauging her reaction.

  She smiled.

  He gave a deep chuckle, shaking the fur on the robe, and his leatherlike face crinkled with mirth.

  Hallie laughed with him.

  The two men were so different physically. She marveled over their apparent fondness for one another and realized they didn't see each other as different. They looked past the skin to see the heart.

  "Your father doesn't distrust me because I'm white?" she asked.

  "He's trusted many whites," Cooper said gruffly. "That's why The People are here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The government makes promises to the Sioux, promises things in exchange for the land. These are a people of bro­ken promises. All those children you saw out there?"

  Hallie nodded.

  "The treaty promising them a school was signed four years ago."

  "And they don't have one yet?"

  "No."

  "That's terrible." She frowned. "I wouldn't hold it against Running Elk if he didn't like me."

  A commotion outside interrupted. Horse
s whinnied and loud whoops volleyed off the tepees. Reacting instantly, Cooper ran out. Hallie waited for his elderly father to rise, and followed him through the flap. She stayed just outside the tent, Cooper and his father standing ahead of her. Other tribesmen came out of their dwellings.

  A dozen Indians atop predominantly white tobinos cre­ated havoc, tipping over wash buckets, scattering woodpiles and teasing the dogs. Several slid drunkenly from their horses and beat upon the sides of the tepees with sticks. A smattering of gunfire erupted, startling Hallie.

  Last Horse staggered toward them, waving a long-barreled revolver. Hallie cast a look at Running Elk. The chiseled features that had been soft with mirth only minutes ago had hardened into unmistakable suffering and displea­sure.

  Running Elk spoke harshly in their hard-syllabled lan­guage, and Last Horse drew up short before them. His hawk­like black eyes, glazed with liquor, raked his father and narrowed on his white brother. They exchanged words and, reaching from beneath his heavy fur robe, Running Elk signed to them. Last Horse's malignant glower slid to Hallie and she cringed back against the tepee.

  Last Horse shot his father a parting glare and whistled to the others. It took several minutes before they caught their horses and led them to a corral Hallie hadn't noticed before. She followed Cooper and his father back into the tepee, but the incident had cast a pall over the day.

  After supper Cooper indicated they were to go. "It's time for the Inktomi lowanpi."

  "The what?"

  "The spider sing. It's what we came for."

  "Oh!" She pulled on her coat and turned to wish Run­ning Elk goodbye, but he was right behind her.

  Cooper led them to a huge tepee in the center of the encampment. Many of the village's occupants seemed to have turned out for the occasion, Chumani and Yellow Ea­gle joining them.

  "Hallie, this is Runs Again," Cooper said, introducing her to an aged Indian.

  "The Yuwipi man?"

  He nodded. An elaborate quill vest covered Runs Again's narrow chest. His brown arms were thin and sinewy. Upon his head he wore a rack of antlers.

  Hallie's eyes rose from his seamy, toothless face to the bizarre headdress. "Uh, how do you do, Runs Again?"