by Karen Kay
Oh, how she had weaved dreams around this man, or rather around the boy she had known. She realized that he was probably nothing like her fantasy warrior, and yet wasn’t he one of the main reasons why she had yearned to come home? Not that she had really expected to meet up with him again.
Still…
She rinsed her cloth and set it to his neck. He moaned slightly.
“Miistap-aaatoo-t annomce!”
She glanced up quickly toward his face, watching as he shifted his head from side to side. What had he said?
It didn’t matter.
The more important issue was, would he live?
Well, he would if she had anything to do with it.
Down each arm, she washed away the dirt and grime. Down his chest, her fingers itched to search at a more leisurely pace those masculine contours. Down further, over his hips, closer and closer to the wound, to that part of him that blatantly declared his masculinity.
Tempting as it was, she ignored it. She had no right to examine this proud man that way.
Down each leg, pulling off his moccasins and washing his feet.
Rinsing her cloth again, she brought it to his face, realizing at the same time that there would be no sleep for her tonight. Not if she were to ensure he remained cool.
Taking his hand in her own, she whispered to him, “Don’t you dare leave me. I have not gone to all this trouble only to lose you. And don’t you pretend not to understand English. I remember you well, and know you comprehend what I am saying.”
He muttered something else, but she couldn’t make it out.
Dipping the cloth again in water, she washed the sweat from his face, preparing herself for the long night ahead.
She changed the water twice, refilling her bucket from the waterfall at the end of the tunnel and trudging it all the way back to the man. There was no alternative. She could not chance going above ground during the daylight hours. She might look suspicious carrying water in and out of her cellar.
Still, he hadn’t awakened and his fever hadn’t abated.
He had tossed and turned throughout the night, muttering unintelligible words, which she had ignored as best as she could. Instead, she focused on changing the poultice and the bandages, which proved difficult, considering the location of his injury.
Every time she worked over him, she was all too aware of his masculinity. It was impossible to ignore. And though she needed a break, she wouldn’t take one. She wouldn’t chance something happening to him in her absence.
“Someday, when you’re awake, I’m going to tell you about the difficulty I had in working over you. Imagine, a young woman such as myself slaving over a nude man who looks like you do, with an injury so close to his privates.”
She glanced at his face. No reaction.
“What do you think of that, Moon Wolf? Or should I call you Wolf Shadow now? I have heard that Indians change their names when they perform deeds of bravery. And I would suspect that Wolf Shadow is now a name of distinction.”
She sighed. Shortly, as soon as she was certain that he wouldn’t relapse, she would go outside, pick some dandelions, and brew a good, stiff tea. That, too, should help with his fever.
She had checked on her mother last night when she had gone into the house for herbs and bandages and left a brief note. Her mother had been sleeping soundly, her breathing clear. That was good. At least Alys could stay with this stranger with a free conscience.
He moaned, twisting from side to side. She took his hand in her own and patted it before speaking softly to him. “Don’t you dare leave me,” she whispered. “I have waited years to be reunited with you, don’t let go now.
“Will you remember me? I have never forgotten you, even when I was in school back east. Never a day went by when I wasn’t thinking about Montana, about the life I had led here, nor, if I am to be honest, about you. I used to weave dreams around you, did you know that? Not that I expect you to be anything like my imaginings, but you left an impression upon me, Mister Wolf Shadow. An impression I have not been able to escape.”
He quieted, and she continued, “Let me tell you about my illusions, about my knight in shining—or rather Indian—armor.”
His hand tightened around hers. That had to be a good sign.
Washing his face and body from time to time, she spun her story, telling him about her silly, girlish dreams, sparing him no detail, not even her more erotic imaginings. On and on she spoke, the time flying by quickly.
Her voice hoarse, she continued to talk to him until, in the wee hours of the morning, he suddenly opened his eyes and stared at her.
“Aa-lees,” He spoke her name with fervor, then said, “Soka ’piiwa.”
She leaned toward him. What had he said? Had he recognized her? Even in his delirium?
Surely that was impossible. Still, it proved to be a turning point in his condition. He immediately broke out into a sweat, his fever falling rapidly. She washed his brow and his chest, encouraging this turn for the better.
“Come on, Mister Wolf Shadow, you will pull through this.”
It was close to dawn the next day when his fitfulness turned into a sound, healing sleep. And Alys, exhausted, recognizing it for what it was, lay down beside him, her hand still clasped in his. She fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, her dreams haunted by a magnificent Indian brave named Wolf Shadow.
Chapter 4
Wolf Shadow woke with aches and pains all over his body. Mostly, however, his head throbbed and his left leg felt as though it had been torn in half.
Curious, he scooted up onto his elbows and glanced down at his leg.
What was this? A compress of white cloth bound around his thigh? He reached down and felt the peculiar object. Ouch!
Wincing, he looked quickly around him, breathing in the cool, earthy smell of the caves, trying to recall what had happened. But nothing came to mind except…he had tried to stop the shipment of whiskey, which had been slated to go north to his people. He had gone into the fort, under the cover of darkness, accomplished his task and then…nothing…
Had he been hit? Evidently so. The pain in his thigh was unmistakable.
But who had tended him? It had to be a white person—most likely a white woman, if this dressing were any indication, for it looked as though it had once been part of a woman’s wearing apparel.
Who? It couldn’t be Ma Clayton, his one and only white friend in the town of Fort Benton. She had been in bed with illness for several months and was still very sick.
Then who? He knew of no one else who had the knowledge of these caves except a young girl who…
It couldn’t be. He hadn’t seen that girl for many, many years. It had been so long ago, that he had assumed she had left this country.
He flopped back down, his attempt at sitting up and thinking proving too much for his weakened body.
He stared upward at the familiarity of the cavern’s stone ceiling, realizing in doing so that there was light, here in a cave where all should be darkness. Where was the light coming from?
He glanced beside him. A white man’s lantern, which sat next to his head, was the source.
What had happened? He tried to recall something…anything…but he remembered nothing…
He heard a noise and instantly stilled. What was that? The sound of singing? A woman singing?
It could be the rush of the waterfalls at the end of the tunnel, making him believe that…no, the tone, the quality of it…it was a woman’s singing…
He heaved back up onto his forearms. Yellow eyes stared at him at a safe distance from the light.
“Makoyi, wolf, poohsap-oo-t, come here.” The big animal crawled slowly forward, whining, until he was able to put his head on his master’s chest. The familiar scent of the wild animal filled his nostrils. “Tsa anistapiiwaatsiksi? What is it? You know, don’t you old friend?” The wolf whimpered, placing his paws up on his master’s shoulders and bringing his nose into contact with his master’s face. “
Takaa/tahkaa a-waasai’ni-wa? Who is the singer, or the crier?”
The wolf sprang up onto his feet and started off in the direction of the falls, returning to his master and nudging him slightly.
“I am not certain I have the strength to follow you, old brother.”
But the wolf again sprinted off, coming back and prodding him, until Wolf Shadow had no choice but to sit up, the blanket which had partially covered him falling away.
At once, he reeled, his head spinning under the simple movement. He groaned, feeling the aches in every muscle of his body, as another problem presented itself—he urgently needed to relieve himself. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He would have to ignore the pain, the urge, and center his attention on how to rise. Carefully, he brought himself up onto his knees.
The cold hit him at once, and he glanced down at himself. There was the source: besides the bandage, he wore no clothing. Had the white woman—if it were a white woman—also undressed him? The thought was anything but comforting.
Struggling forward in a crawl, he finally reached the wall of the cave. Holding closely to it, he pushed himself up, onto his feet, pausing for a moment to see if the spinning in his head would ease. It didn’t, and he began to feel as if he had recently taken a journey to the Sand Hills, where his ancestors resided, only to have been spat back out.
Groping along the wall to steady himself, he dealt with the urgency of his body before slowly proceeding toward the opening of the cave, every step a test of his strength.
Closer and closer he shambled, the sound of the singing, soft and high-pitched, becoming more and more alluring.
Despite the noise from the falls, the source was unmistakable. Definitely a woman, most likely a white woman, since he knew of few Indian women who could speak the English language without accent.
He managed the gradual incline toward the end of the cave, the cold walls of the cavern acting as his cane. Closer and closer he inched, until light began to filter into the tunnel.
He squinted, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden brilliance of the outside world before seeking out the source of such enchanting sound. Slowly, he pushed himself into the opening of the cave.
Then he saw her. Weak though he was, he felt his whole body go stiff.
This was certainly not Ma Clayton. Had this young woman attended him? He glanced down at himself, at his nakedness, the thought crossing his mind that he had little to hide from her if she had been his attendant.
Unusually irritated, he moved a little closer. Who was she? And why had she helped him? Was it possible that she was the young girl from his past? His Alys? It seemed highly possible.
Her voice resonated with an alluring quality, he noted, the sound of it lilting and beautiful. Her body was pale, smooth, rounded, and soft. Despite his weakness, he felt his body respond to the sight before him, to her.
Her back was to him, allowing him an ample view of her slim, rounded buttocks and long legs. Brown hair, auburn tinged with highlights, had been piled high on her head, and he stood transfixed, able to do little more than stare at her. Belatedly, she reached up to release her hair, letting it shimmer down her back, before it surrendered to the water of the falls.
He suddenly felt…not so ill.
She stopped singing, turned, and plunged her face into the falling water. In that brief moment, however, he had caught sight of something she wore around her neck. A necklace. One he recognized as his own. A single white shell, the same necklace he had given to a young girl so very long ago.
It had to be his sweet Alys, the girl from his past. It remained only for him to look into her eyes and glimpse her spirit to confirm his suspicion.
He had never, would never forget that young girl, nor his initial impression of her. Once, long ago, he had gazed into her child-like eyes, had witnessed her spirit, and…had never been the same.
Had that same girl grown into this beautiful woman who unknowingly paraded before him? Or more importantly, had that same person come to his rescue yet again?
He wondered, too, if she and Ma Clayton were related, the older woman’s daughter perhaps? Though Ma Clayton had befriended him, he knew little about her or her life.
The vision before him unexpectedly stepped from the falls, her flawless, nude body in full view for his curious perusal.
And, as a drop of moisture does in a ray of sun, any thought he’d had in his head fled. He stared. What man wouldn’t?
His body responded to the sight of her, stiffening as though he hadn’t just returned from the dead.
He felt dishonorable. If this woman had nursed him—and he believed that she had—then under no circumstances should he be watching her while she bathed.
Perhaps that was to account for the rudeness of his first words to her…perhaps. But he needed to say something; he would have her know that he was here, watching, staring…for her own protection.
He called out, “Is this the way the white woman offers herself to me?” Immediately he chided himself for his crudeness.
He heard her indrawn gasp, saw her startled gaze rise up to meet his. Aa, yes, so he had been right. This was the girl from his past. He would know this person anywhere, from her soft, brown eyes and the delicate dimples in her cheeks, down to the very tips of her toes. She was a slight little thing, even full grown, and would probably come up to no more than his shoulders, yet she was well rounded and feminine in all the right places. Much too feminine.
In truth, despite the weakness of his body, he was having a difficult time curbing a sudden fire within him, the tantalizing display before him providing the fuel. And he didn’t need to remind himself again that his inclinations were all out of place, that good manners dictated he show her the respect she so rightly deserved.
Yet, despite his attempt at self-control, he could not repress the urge of his body; its pure, lustful desire clearly exhibited, providing her more than a healthy view of its demand. He said, none too gently, “I assume it is you who has nursed me back from the dead?”
No expression crossed her face, her wide-eyed stare his only reply.
“I owe you my gratitude, I think,” he continued on, “although…perhaps it would have been wiser if you had ensured my unconsciousness before you”—he gestured toward her—“bathed.”
She bristled. “I did not believe there was a need. You are not supposed to be up and about, wandering through the caves. And you are welcome.” To her credit, she did not try to hide herself from him, though that lack sorely tried what little rein he held over his body’s strong inclination.
And so, with the conviction of censoring himself and shielding her at the same time, he took refuge behind a harsher tone of voice, baiting further, “Aa, yes, you did not think me able to roam. That explains why I find us both without clothes. Am I right? Was there something the matter that you could not dress me? I can only think, when I look at you, then examine myself, that it is something you…planned?”
Planned? Had he really said that? Irritated with himself, he tried to turn and put his back to her, but the weakness in his body would not allow it. He sank back against the wall of the cave and drew in a deep breath.
Meanwhile, her mouth had fallen open, as rightly it should. She uttered, “Planned?” He could see her eyes moving this way and that, not in fright, but rather as someone searching for something. She asserted, “I have not planned anything these past few days. I have been doing my best to help you.”
“Aa, yes, help.” He peered down at himself. How he wished he could hide from her. But he could not, could only think that perhaps this was the cause for his continued rudeness as he said, apparently unable to help himself, “I seem to be behaving strangely to your ‘help.’ But then, you can see that for yourself, can you not, having taken my clothes? Was this, too, what you wanted?”
He heard her gasp. “How dare you speak to me this way. I have done nothing to you but—”
“I dare a great deal, I think, and I am certain
that later I will have to apologize. But at this moment, I am at a disadvantage, being weak, unclothed, and unable to—”
“Well, you’re not supposed to be up and moving around, spying on me. What are you doing walking around these caves?”
He smiled, his glance, unfortunately for him, a leer. “I heard singing and became curious. And I would not have missed seeing this…you, the way you are…what man could ignore such womanly singing? I can tell you now that if it was your intention to bring me back to life, you have certainly accomplished that. At least a part of my body. I am not sure of the rest of me.”
“Of all the…that was impertinent.” She glanced at him as if waiting for an apology.
Yes, he did, and he would have to agree.
He saw her glance take in the lower half of his body, heard her gulp, delighted devilishly in the color that filled her cheeks. Aa, yes, though it was wrong of him to tease her the way he was, at the same time it made him feel so very much alive. And that was better, very much better than the alternative.
He almost smiled, but she had stiffened her spine, the action causing her breasts to jut forward, and he caught his breath. Had he ever seen a more beautiful woman?
She continued, “I was singing because I was happy, although I’m not so sure that I should be. I had thought that I was saving a great man’s life. Great man, indeed. How wrong can a body be? Perhaps I should have left you to the elements…”
Through her tirade, he noticed that her eyes were again searching the cave, as though she were looking for something. He followed her gaze, finding it centered around his feet. He glanced down, then silently rebuked himself. Why hadn’t he noticed this before? Her clothing lay in a heap next to him. She couldn’t dress without approaching him.
Despite the physical torment it cost him to do it, he bent down and picked up her dress, throwing it to her. “Cover yourself,” he ordered, his voice harsh, if only to mask the pain, “unless you wish me to do something that my body is urging me to do, despite its weakness.”
He inwardly groaned. He was going to have to curb his tongue. Was it possible that his lack of control was because of his weakness? After all, he respected her, had thought pleasantly of her these past years. Why couldn’t he simply tell her that his body’s response was a quirk, that he didn’t ordinarily lack for control where females were concerned?
