Her Cheyenne Warrior (Harlequin Historical)

by Lauri Robinson

  “Yes. It is very pretty. Very peaceful. Is that why you chose this spot?”

  He gestured toward the hills. “It is well protected from the wind, and holds much grass for the animals, and water.” With another gesture toward the trees, he added, “And wood for fires.”

  “That is all true,” she said. “But it’s still pretty. One of the prettiest places I’ve ever been.”

  Pointing toward her lap, he asked, “What do you have?”

  “This?” She picked the book up off her lap.

  He nodded.

  She set it on the ground beside her. “It’s my diary. I started it when I left England. It made me feel as if I wasn’t alone. I had several when I was smaller, but only wrote in them once in a while. When I was mad or hurt. I guess that is why I started this one.”

  He had seen the books the white man wrote in at the fort and the ones the churchwomen had carried and read strange words from. “What is in your book?”

  “My thoughts mainly. I was just reading some of the things I’d written.”

  “You write about Black Horse?”

  She laughed. “No.”

  “Why? You could say he mighty hunter. Kill many buffalo.”

  Her eyes were like the sun on the water when she looked up at him. “I could. You did kill many buffalo.” She pointed to her moccasins. “I decorated my new shoes with the teeth from one of them. She Who Smiles showed me how to drill holes in them and sew them on.” She laughed again. “Now, that I should write in my diary. No one would ever believe I walk around with animal teeth on my shoes, and that I like it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, animal teeth aren’t commonly used for jewelry in England.”

  He did not completely understand, but nodded. “What do you sew on your clothes in England?”

  “Lace mainly. My mother insisted on it. Lots and lots of lace.”

  “You do not like lace?”

  Her smile returned, but a frown sat between her eyes. “Do you know what lace is?”

  “Hova’ahane.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Her smile filled her words. “It’s thin, fine thread woven into frilly light material and then sewn on in layers and layers. Sort of like the fringes on my moccasins.”

  “I like your moccasins.”

  “I do, too,” she said. “I like them a lot.”

  Her gaze had gone to the sun sliding to sleep behind a hill. He waited, watching as it fell lower, before he asked, “Do you miss England, Poeso?”

  “No.”

  Her response was so swift and harsh he turned to look at her. She still stared at the sun, but he could feel her sadness. “Do you miss your family?” he asked.

  “No. Never.” She closed her eyes and sighed before turning to look at him. “That’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  “It is not wrong to feel what is in your heart.”

  “I don’t think my heart works like yours does. Like everyone else’s here does. Maybe an Indian heart is different from a white person’s.”

  “I do not believe that,” he said.

  “I don’t, either,” she said. “But we are different.”

  “Heehe’e,” he answered. “We are different because our lives are different.” The wind blew her hair around her face. He reached up and tucked it behind her ear. “Lives can change. Lives do change.”

  “But do hearts?”

  His had changed much in the days since seeing her in the river. Whether he had wanted it to or not, realized it or not, his life had changed. His heart had changed. “Heehe’e,” he said.

  He could understand the sadness in her eyes, and put his arm around her.

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’ve never sat and watched the sun set before,” she whispered. “Not even while on the wagon train.”

  Tightening his hold on her, he whispered, “Ese’he.”

  “Is that the word for sun?”

  He nodded.

  “Ese’he.” She sighed. “The Cheyenne words are much prettier than English ones.”

  “You did not think so before.”

  She tilted her head to look up at him. “I changed my mind.”

  The sparkles in her eyes made him smile. “Epeva’e.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lorna had thought she’d sleep well with Black Horse back home. The long nights alone had been sleepless and she’d assumed that had been because of his absence. It may have been, but tonight, sleep evaded her because of his presence. The pine boughs beneath him rustled as he moved and echoed through the lodge, as did his breathing, which told her he wasn’t asleep, either.

  “Can you not sleep, Poeso?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you awake.”

  “Hova’ahane,” he said. “You are not. Ehaoho’ta.”

  “Heehe’e,” she agreed. “Ehaoho’ta.” It indeed was hot, but the heat seemed to be inside her. She’d already taken off her moccasins, something she usually didn’t do. Since leaving Missouri she hadn’t undressed for bed, not even her footwear. In truth, she’d slept in her clothes since leaving England. Douglas had entered her room just as she’d changed into her nightclothes, and after that night, she hadn’t been able to don a night rail. Might never again.

  “You could take off clothes,” he said.

  Her heart thudded, but it wasn’t because she was afraid. “You have yours on.”

  “Heehe’e.”

  “Why?” Chagrin had her face burning. “I mean, do you usually sleep with your britches on? When it’s this hot, I mean.”

  “Hova’ahane.”

  “Then, why are you now?” She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with him, yet now that her immediate mortification for asking had dissolved, she wasn’t embarrassed, and was more than curious.

  “Because I do not want to frighten you,” he said.

  The humor in his voice provoked her, but she could not relate it to fear. She’d seen more bare skin since arriving at the village than she’d ever have imagined. He never wore a shirt. Most of the men in the camp didn’t, and almost all of the children, the little ones, ran around as bare as the day they were born. The mothers took precautions by rubbing the youngsters down with a mixture of lard and clay to keep them from blistering beneath the blazing sun. Even the women...

  “Why do you sleep in your dress?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  Unable to come up with an answer midthought, she said, “Because I don’t want to frighten you.”

  He laughed. “Poeso not frighten Black Horse.”

  She didn’t doubt that.

  “I know what is beneath your dress.”

  She catapulted upright and spun around to face his bed across the lodge. He was sitting up, too. “When?” She’d bathed with the rest of the women, but he’d never been around the village then.

  He laughed again. “At the river. When I found you. You were not wearing your dress.”

  “When you threw me over your horse,” she added, although that no longer angered her. Surprisingly, she’d forgotten how close to naked she’d been that day. It hadn’t scared her then. Most likely because she’d thought they’d all be dead soon. That had made her state of dress a very minor detail.

  “Heehe’e,” he answered. “And you bit me.”

  Another minor detail she’d forgotten about. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Heehe’e.”

  “And you stole my gun.”

  “Not stole. I gave it back.”

  “Heehe’e. You did.”

  Despite the darkness, she saw how he sat straight and tall, as always, with his chin lifted slightly and his broad shoulders square. Proud but not conceited. She liked that. His confidence. And she liked his protection, for that was what she felt when he was near. Like no one could hurt her.

  “I grieve that you were hurt, Poeso.”

  His statement was so out of the blue, her breath caught. “You grieve?”

  “Heehe’e.”


  She bowed her head, not from embarrassment, but a woeful sensation that she couldn’t explain. “I do, too.” It had been over a year ago, and the pain wasn’t nearly as strong. Her desire for retribution was no longer forefront in her mind. “I will forever hate him,” she whispered. “Forever.”

  “Hate can ruin a heart.”

  “I know.” She had already told him more than she’d told anyone, but couldn’t stop the words as they started rolling off her tongue. “They, my mother and Douglas, told me to get dressed and meet them downstairs. I knew they were going to send me away, off to some isolated country estate like they so often did, or maybe I knew it would be worse that time. I got dressed and I dug out the envelope my father had given me. He’d told me about Elliot Chadwick only weeks before he had died. Almost as if he knew his time was limited. I didn’t realize that then, but do now. He was robbed and murdered on his way home one night. They never found who did it. Anyway, there was money in the envelope he’d given me, lots of it, and a note he’d written, laying down the details of what he’d told me. That I was only to use the money if he wasn’t around and I was in danger. I’d looked at that money plenty of times, thinking of the things I could buy with it, but I never used it, not until that night.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I left the house, and stole a horse. I’m not even sure where I found it, but I rode it to the other side of town. I was sure I was being followed, so I let it go and stole another, then another.” The blurriness of that time hadn’t cleared in the months since. Might never. “I just kept moving, day and night. I rented carriages and took trains, even boats up the coast. Eventually, I found a ship sailing to New York and bought passage. It was January when I arrived in New York, and it took me some time to find William Chadwick. By then I no longer felt as if I was being followed, but I couldn’t wait for him to contact Elliot in California.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I just couldn’t. I didn’t trust anyone. Something inside me said I had to go to California, just as strongly as it said I had to come to America.”

  “You have great will, Poeso.”

  His words filled her with so much pride her chest puffed. No one had ever paid her compliments like he did, not ones they really meant. She wasn’t sure how to respond, and settled for saying a simple “Thank you.”

  “You greatly desire to meet this Elliot Chadwick and get your money.”

  An undertone in his voice sent a chill over her heated skin. Of course she did. She had to get to California and meet Elliot and get her money, she had to. Yet the desire wasn’t as strong as it once had been. Lorna twisted, about to lie back down. “We should sleep now.”

  “You are no longer hot?”

  “No,” she answered. The heat was the least of her worries. Right now, her greatest desire—one far stronger than getting to California—was to crawl over and lie next to Black Horse. To feel his lips on hers again and to sleep with his arms around her.

  Despite such foreign desires, Lorna slept at some point, and the next morning was too busy to focus on what had kept her awake. She went about tearing down the lodge and packing it for travel as if she’d been doing it her entire life. Of course, she still had help, and was thankful for that. Black Horse was nowhere to be seen, hadn’t been since she awoke, which at least told her she had indeed slept.

  Tillie, along with a small child, were on the wagon seat when Lorna climbed up to drive the team of mules into the long line already heading away from the place she’d come to think of as home. An oddity for sure. There was nothing here, now that the lodges had all been taken down. She’d changed during the weeks they’d camped in this little valley and wasn’t sure how or why. There seemed to be many things she wasn’t sure of anymore.

  The line of people stretching out across the prairie was no longer a strange sight. There were far fewer this time, but she still couldn’t see the leader. Black Horse. He and his huge horse had long ago disappeared into the horizon. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of him, as it did regularly these days.

  She attempted to pull her mind off him by picking out others she knew. Besides Meg, Betty and Tillie, there were many, including Stands Tall riding his stocky black-and-white horse next to her wagon. His presence no longer irritated her. In truth, she respected him and his duties, not only in how he watched over her, but how he and the others in his profession stood guard over the entire village.

  The children were another group she’d gained respect for. They were very well behaved, and from the time they could walk, they knew how to ride a horse. Many had their own ponies, and rode them proudly. The children were also excellent at amusing themselves. Even the youngest, those swaddled tightly in cradle boards, giggled as they bobbed along, hanging off the side of a horse their mothers rode or walked beside.

  She found herself smiling at their adorable actions more often than not.

  “What are you grinning about?” Tillie asked.

  Lorna shrugged. “Nothing in particular.”

  “You’ve been doing that more and more lately. Smiling. It looks good on you.”

  “I guess there’s something to be said for traveling in numbers,” Lorna said, looking deep to find an explanation for things she didn’t understand.

  “There were a number of others on the wagon train,” Tillie pointed out.

  “Yes, there were,” Lorna replied. “An untrustworthy number.”

  Tillie grinned. “I trust the Cheyenne far more than I did those on the wagon train, too. They are a lot like us.”

  “Like us?”

  “Yes,” Tillie answered. “One for all and all for one.”

  Lorna glanced toward her friend. They were both dressed in their nun outfits, mainly because the habits provided protection from the sun that was sure to accompany them the entire day. Despite the black material surrounding Tillie’s face, she looked prettier than ever before. There was color in her cheeks and a shine in her eyes that hadn’t been there previously. She, too, had changed. Nodding, Lorna agreed. “You’re right.”

  “I think I’m right about what you were grinning about, too,” Tillie said, pointing ahead of them.

  Lorna turned to gaze in that general direction. Even before her eyes found him, her heart started beating faster. Far ahead, a big black horse was making its way toward them.

  “He likes you,” Tillie said.

  Lorna’s cheeks burned. “No more than he likes anyone else.”

  Tillie laughed. “Believe what you want, but I’ve seen a man in love before, and that man is in love.”

  A shiver, not a chill, but one filled with delight, rippled inside her. “You don’t know what you are saying. And you shouldn’t be talking about such things.”

  “Why not? Because he’s a Cheyenne Indian?” Tillie shook her head. “Human love is as color-blind as God’s love.”

  “Love is not...” Her train of thought went blank as Black Horse rode closer.

  “Not what you want?” Tillie asked.

  “It doesn’t matter what I want or don’t want. We’ll soon be heading for California, and may never see any of these people again,” Lorna said.

  “I know.” Tillie sighed. “I can’t say I like that thought. I know Betty and Meg don’t.”

  Anger, or something akin to it, rose inside Lorna. “Well, we really don’t have a choice, do we?”

  “Yes, we do,” Tillie said. “There’s nothing in California for me. When Adam was alive, we had a dream of making something together, but there’s nothing for me alone. There won’t be a big farm with cattle and a house with real glass windows and wooden floors. No...”

  Lorna had stopped listening. Black Horse was almost to the wagon and he was leading another horse. A black-and-white paint with big brown eyes. Black Horse was smiling, and that increased her heartbeat yet again.

  He spoke to Stands Tall before circling around and riding up beside the wagon. “Monehe’se?”

&n
bsp; “Ready to go where?” she asked.

  He grinned and held out the rope reins of the horse he led.

  “I’m driving the wagon,” she said.

  “I can drive the wagon,” Tillie said, easily taking the reins from her hands and guiding the mules out of the line. “Go with him,” she whispered under her breath. “It’ll be more fun than driving the mules all day.”

  Lorna was attempting to hide an incredible amount of joy and delight. More than once she’d dreamed of riding one of the Indian ponies. They were very well behaved, and she’d longed for the freedom of riding upon a horse’s back for ages. The idea of riding beside Black Horse was the most thrilling of all.

  “Go on,” Tillie said. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

  Lorna climbed down and walked to where Black Horse waited, her heart beating twice as fast as it should. His smile was part of the reason. She had to admit that. That much was as clear to her as the blue sky overhead. He said nothing as he grasped her waist and lifted her onto the paint. When she attempted to settle her legs over one side, as she was used to riding, he shook his head.

  “This is how I always ride.”

  “It is dangerous,” he said.

  “This is how all women ride,” she said, however, without a saddle, she was questioning her ability to stay on the animal’s back.

  “The horse will not like it,” he said. “You ride like Black Horse.”

  “I’ll try.” The disappointment of not riding at all was stronger than her fear of falling off. Finagling the yards of black material was not an easy task, but he assisted her and soon she was astride the horse with nothing beneath her but a thick woven blanket. When he handed her the reins, she asked, “What’s her name?”

  He shrugged. “Horse?”

  She laughed. “You can’t name every horse that. I think I’ll call her Patches.”

  He grinned while grabbing a handful of his horse’s mane and easily swinging up onto the big animal. Side by side they rode along the line of travelers. Black Horse returned many waves, and responded to questions from many people. Lorna understood most of the queries were inconsequential. About the weather, the travel or the land. The Cheyenne language was easy to understand now that she knew the basic sounds. In fact, it was probably far easier to learn than English.