Destiny's Bride

by Ginger Simpson

  “Not strong. There is much pain in my shoulder.”

  “I’m sure.” She nodded. “You have a very nasty wound. What happened?” Eager to hear his answer, she pulled the bench closer to him and sat.

  “I hunted for members of my tribe who travel to our winter lodge and came upon a white man camped on the prairie. I hid in tall grass and watched him for a long time. Three on horses rode into the man’s campground and began to cause trouble. When I realized his danger, I went to help. I fought until I felt a knife pierce my skin, and that was the last I remember.” His face showed his anguish.

  “How did you end up here?” She pressed for more.

  “When I woke the next morning, everyone was gone. There was no trace of the man I tried to help; he and his wagon were gone. I think they all thought I was dead, and that was a good thing for me.” His full lips curled into a smile. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, but you surprised me, too. I thought no one lived here.”

  As Cecile listened to Lone Eagle’s story, fear gripped her heart. His words played over and over in her mind. One man and a wagon. She silently prayed it wasn’t Walt.

  “Lone Eagle,” she said, panic edging her voice, “what did this one man look like? What color was his hair? How tall was he?” She posed question after question without taking a breath.

  His brow furrowed and he shrugged. “His hair was dark like the night, the rest I do not know.”

  Such a vague description could apply to anyone. Why assume it fit Walt? At least that’s what she tried to convince herself. She changed the subject. “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded.

  She concocted a stew made from the few canned goods left in the cupboard; if nothing else any food would help Lone Eagle regain his strength. When the mixture bubbled with heat, she sampled a spoonful only to find it had no taste. With no spices left to add, she filled a bowl and sat it on the table, hoping he was polite enough not to mention her lack of cooking skills.

  Lone Eagle stood on legs that appeared too wobbly, looking weak and disoriented. Sensing his reluctance to admit weakness, Cecile placed her arm around his waist and helped him to the table.

  Lone Eagle didn’t exhibit the reaction she expected, instead the way he spooned the bland soup into his mouth, one would think he liked it. Either that or he hadn’t eaten in days.

  While he ate, Cecile sat across from him. “After listening to your story, I fear that the man you tried to help was my husband. He’s been gone for several days and should have been back by now.” Although she put her worst fear to words, if Lone Eagle retold his story, perhaps he’d remember more of what happened and put her mind at ease.

  “I did not get a good look at any of them,” he said apologetically. Except for overemphasis on some words and hesitation here and there, his English was nearly perfect.

  Cecile wrestled with reality. There was a chance Walt wasn’t the ambushed man at all, but just in case, she closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer for his safety. Lone Eagle interrupted her thoughts. “Is there more soup? Stomach still hungry.”

  ***

  Three more days passed. The waiting and wondering was an endless torture. Deep in her heart Cecile knew Walt wasn’t coming home, but she fought with all her might to hold on to the slightest belief he would.

  Lone Eagle, feeling stronger, insisted on staying to help with the lighter chores. Cecile was more than happy to let him, since her bouts with nausea had intensified. The water bowl turned into a permanent fixture next to the bed; as soon as her feet hit the floor in the morning, she became violently ill. If Lone Eagle noticed, he politely pretended not to. His presence eased the burden of running the farm, but did nothing to take away her pain. Day after day she waited and prayed for Walt’s return.

  Just as she had every night since he left, Cecile held Walt’s pillow close, but tonight it dampened with tears of reality. With each passing day, the belief that Walt was gone for good became harder to accept. Here she was in the middle of nowhere, with no idea how to find her way back to Silver City. What was she to do?

  She should have paid attention during the trip here. Could she possibly find her way back to the Stinsons’? Another reality to face. The answer was no. It was unbelievable that at nineteen, she'd married and was now almost certainly a widow stranded in the middle of nowhere…and expecting a child. Thank God for Lone Eagle. At least, he kept her company and acted as though he understood her pain.

  As he readied his bed next to the fireplace, she stilled her crying enough to tell him again how she’d met and married Walt and came to this desolate place. Lone Eagle offered no advice, but instead shared stories about his people.

  Cecile curled on her side, welcoming the distraction. Anything to quell the hurt in her heart.

  “In the summer, my people camp on the flatlands, near rivers and streams, to be closer to plentiful food. We spend the summer building stores of game, fruit, and berries to carry us through the winter. When the leaves turn colors or begin to fall, we travel to the land sheltered by mountains and trees to shield us from winter winds and other tribes who want to steal what is ours. On the prairie there is no protection from mother earth and there is no place to hide.” His mood turned somber.

  “One young girl became sick and unable to make the journey to our winter camp. Her family stayed behind until she is well. I traveled to make sure of their safety, that was when I came upon the man on the prairie.”

  The fear flooded back, seizing Cecile’s heart in its icy grip. She collapsed into tears again and turned to face the wall. There was no need to hear this part of the story again; it was embedded in her mind.

  Chapter Seven

  Lone Eagle opened the cracked shutters and peered at the orange glow in the sky. The rooster Cecile feared perched atop the corral fence and crowed, and flapped his wings. The tip of the sun crested the horizon, reminding Lone Eagle of the fire’s reflection in the white woman’s hair, and he smiled, not knowing if it was the thought of her or the feel of the brisk morning air on his bare chest that brought him fully awake. It had been over two weeks since he’d come here, and now he had a decision to make.

  The winter snows fast approached. His wound had healed and his strength returned. His responsibility to the woman who had nursed him back to health kept him from leaving…that, and the feelings he experienced whenever he looked into her green eyes. But he had to go; he had only to decide how to convince Cecile she must come with him. He could not abandon her here, trusting fate she would survive a winter alone. Her food supplies were almost gone, and she was with child. The climbing sun moved higher in the cloudless sky and he decided that within ten more risings they would leave for his village. The remaining days should be enough time for her to see the wisdom in his words.

  Lone Eagle closed the shutters and turned. Cecile stood next to the bed, running fingers of one hand through her long, auburn hair while stifling a yawn with the other. Her eyes were red and puffy from all the crying she'd done in the past days, but she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. His gaze followed her as she crossed the room to the fireplace.

  “Good morning. I didn’t mean to sleep so late.” She perched on the edge of her rocking chair and peered up through swollen eyes. “I’m afraid I’ve been letting you handle most of the chores. I need to pull myself together and get a handle on things again. It’s time to learn to rely on myself, now more than ever.”

  Her words showed the beginning of acceptance. No more tears rimmed her eyes, and she finally spoke true about a future without her man. She rose and, with a sniffle, walked to the kitchen counter while Lone Eagle knelt at the hearth, stirring embers to rejuvenate the fire. The smell of fresh coffee wafted through the room as she spooned the grounds into the pot. He had developed a taste for this white man’s drink, and unfortunately a desire for his woman, whom his heart had named “Green Eyes.”

  ***

  Another week faded into memory and a new one began. From sunrise
to sunset Cecile existed in a trance-like state, helping Lone Eagle with the chores. While her body worked, her mind roamed elsewhere, accepting now that Walt was dead, and figuring how she’d live without him. Nothing except death would keep them apart.

  She thought back to their first meeting, remembered being in his arms the night they danced, how he held her as close as he could without being improper—the way he smelled of fresh laundry soap. And those beautiful blue eyes. He saw to the depths of her soul.

  Intruding on her reverie, Lone Eagle handed her a basket of eggs. “For some reason, your rooster does not bother me. Maybe he senses your fear.”

  She forced a smile but a scream welled in her throat. Who wouldn’t sense her fear? Her life had become a jumble and as empty as the prairie around her. Choking back emotions, she carried the delicate cargo to the house. She gazed around, remembering how disappointed she'd been when Walt reined in the team at the shack he called a house. If she could see him riding up this very moment, she’d never complain again.

  A strange fluttering in her middle caused her to pause on the porch—the first stirrings of her baby perhaps? She rested a hand on her slightly protruding stomach and pondered her child’s fate. A tear trickled down her cheek knowing Walt died without knowing he was going to be a father.

  She patted the wetness from her cheek and squared her shoulders. Her husband’s passing meant she’d have to make up for his absence by loving their child twice as much. Her anger against the men who killed her beloved grew like a fire in her belly, and although her hatred for them blurred the rest of the day, she managed to stay in charge of her emotions. Her companion deserved no more of her frantic outbursts.

  Later that evening, she sat in her rocking chair, crocheting; Lone Eagle perched on the corner of the hearth next to her, a crease in his handsome brow.

  “We must speak, Green Eyes. Please hear what I have to say.”

  Cecile continued to crochet, a pang of fear stabbing at her heart. She’d been dreading the time when Lone Eagle would announce his departure, and although she knew he couldn’t stay forever, her heart pounded with anticipation at the serious look on his face.

  “You know that soon the winter snows will come. My people must think me dead by now, and my father, Chief Broken Feather, must surely have mourned my spirit’s passing. I must return to my people before the prairie grass is covered with white.” He lowered his gaze to the floor. “I know, because I have observed your sickness, you are with child.” He raised his chin and met her eyes.” I cannot leave you here alone. I have decided you will come with me to my tribe’s winter camp.”

  She dropped her needle and yarn into her lap, and her mouth gaped, waiting for words to come, but none did.

  “There you will be safe and I will continue to care for you. Since you no longer have a man, I would be honored to call you my woman. As the wife of Lone Eagle you will be treated with respect and honor, as I will one day be chief. And… your child will be my child.” His hand rested atop hers for a fleeting moment but withdrew it as if a show of familiarity might offend her. Compared to his offer, the touch was minor.

  Her eyes widened in shock. Go with him? It was bad enough to have crossed the wilderness with a man she loved, bound for a destination she'd never seen, but to leave with an Indian and dwell with people who weren’t even her own kind? Lord forbid, didn’t they kill whites? Why hadn’t she paid attention when Walt brought her here? Could she find her way back across all those miles her parents? Was Walt really dead? What about her baby? Overwhelmed by everything, she buried her face in her hands, her body trembling.

  Lone Eagle was right. She’d never survive alone, and had the baby to think about, not just herself. In a desperate moment, she replayed the crossing of the prairie over and over in her head, trying to imagine in which direction the sun rose. She tried to remember a landmark, any landmark, which might guide her home to her parents. Asking Lone Eagle to take her back to Silver City was absurd. She didn’t even know if it lay to the east, north, south, or west, besides, an Indian wouldn’t be a welcome sight in any town—especially since local newspapers carried news of an uprising somewhere in Montana called the Bozeman Trail. She couldn’t recall all the details, but did remember that the articles said awful things about red-skinned people. Strangely, so far she hadn’t seen bad behavior by Lone Eagle, and in the presence of a lone woman, he’d certainly had a chance to display the heathenness the news depicted.

  Grasping at straws, she thought perhaps she could find Castroville, but even Walt, with all his experience in crossing the prairie, had not successfully made that journey.

  Thoughts tumbled through her mind, and she weighed the consequences of staying against going with Lone Eagle, and in the end she agreed with him. Even if she managed to survive the winter at home, she couldn’t birth a child alone. She had to accompany him. Going was her only option. The final realization that her life with Walt was over was a bitter pill to swallow, but she nodded at Lone Eagle and forced a smile.

  The remaining days of the week, she spent preparing for the trip—packing the little remaining food, gathering warm clothing and blankets, and deciding what to take along on horseback. Sitting on the floor, she packed her valise with personal items, thanking God Walt had invested in the extra mares. Lone Eagles’ horse was long gone and probably wouldn’t have borne two people and all the supplies for very long.

  She set Bossie and the other animals free to fend for themselves. Cecile struggled to block the image of Walt’s prideful smile when they brought the menagerie home. She longed to take the cow but Lone Eagle insisted they’d travel easier without her.

  Glancing around the scant room, she thought it ironic to feel so sad at leaving a home she'd hated at first sight. What was to become of her now? Would she ever see her mother and father again? How could she let them know what had happened to her? They must have received her letter, if Walt had mailed it—that missive that colored such a rosy future. Fighting to accept her new destiny, she curled up with Walt’s pillow and after fighting most of the night with fearful images and expectations, fell into a troubled sleep.

  The sun was barely creeping over the horizon when Lone Eagle woke her. While she brought everything they were taking except her valise onto the porch, he led the horses out of the barn and tied the supplies to their backs. He moved swiftly and without a sound. The rooster crowed, breaking the stillness of the morning. Despite finding the sound annoying in the past, Cecile would miss it. Walt had so loved that stupid bird. Tears welled again. Her every image conjured up visions of Walt, even with her acceptance of his demise.

  She opened the chicken pen for the last time and scattered feed on the ground, all the while keeping an eye on the feathered menace’s whereabouts. She didn’t bother to close the door. Afterwards, she tugged at the pigsty’s stubborn gateway to allow the mud-covered animal to wander into the yard. In the barn, she opened Bossie’s confining stall. The patchwork repairs she'd helped Walt complete stood out from the weathered wood and reminded her how happy he’d been when the task was over. A tear trickled down her cheek, and she reached up to brush it away. So few memories of a man she planned to die old with.

  Cecile went into the house to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She’d packed her heavy coat, several pairs of Walt’s socks, and whatever clothing still fit. She was wearing Walt’s shirts now because of her expanding waistline.

  Her gaze rested on the small wooden box that held her jewelry. Opening it, she fingered the meager contents. Although she hadn’t had much call to wear any of it since her marriage, and the beads and such didn’t fall into the category of necessary things Lone Eagle advised her to take along, she crammed the container into her valise.

  One last time, she glanced around the cabin, now barren of any warmth and comfort. The emptiness in the pit of her stomach felt like an endless void, one she’d never fill again. She closed the door behind her, leaving the few possessions she'd brought from Silver C
ity. She lifted her chin, still trying to persuade herself her choice was the right one for her and her child. A negative little voice in her head niggled at her, saying ‘Walt might still come home’. Her heart knew that wasn’t true.

  Lone Eagle held her horse while she mounted, then secured her valise to the saddle horn and made sure her stirrups were adjusted correctly. She smiled down at him, realizing that despite the sadness of the moment, she was very lucky he had stumbled into her life.

  He mounted and gave her a warm smile. “We will take the journey at a slow pace. I do not want to cause harm to your unborn child.”

  Cecile clutched the reins in a death grip and dug her heels into the horse’s flanks. As the beast lurched forward she fought to retain her balance. Already she felt panicky, and not just because she wasn’t a very experienced horsewoman. She was leaving the safety of the only trace of civilization she knew, and by her estimation she was about five months into an unexpected pregnancy—not a good way to begin a journey. She tried to temper her fright with the knowledge she was young and strong.

  Several hours passed before Cecile finally developed a rhythm with the horse’s gait and her tension lessened. Relaxing her grip on the reins returned the color to her knuckles. As the sun crept higher in the sky, her stomach rumblings reminded her she hadn’t eaten anything. Lone Eagle seemed to sense her need and reined in his horse, motioning her to do the same. She wondered why he picked this particular place to stop. The prairie seemed endless, the same for miles in every direction.

  Lone Eagle dismounted, helped her down, and took a blanket from his horse. She enjoyed the respite from the saddle while he opened a pouch and produced biscuits and dried meat. He poured water into the tin cups he’d brought from the cabin, then placed the fare before her. She appreciated the simple meal as though it were a feast. While she ate, she surveyed her surroundings, wondering where she was. Was there a town just beyond the horizon? Had they traveled closer to Silver City? How did one ever learn their way around without landmarks?