by Karen Kay
Wakonda, therefore, the action I should take will be to hand back the woman to LaCroix.”
Grey Coyote waited. Nothing happened at first. Had he done it? Had he ended the curse? His heart beat out a fast cadence, and his hopes rose, for the star still shone brightly.
As quickly as the clouds had earlier moved aside, they now stirred briskly in the opposite direction, forming a curtain over the star, hiding it. The thunder rumbled, it spun, it roared, its noise sounding to Grey Coyote’s ears like the mockery of laughter. And then, as swiftly as that, the star was gone.
Grey Coyote’s arms fell to his sides, and silently he bowed his head.
He had failed. Once again, he had failed. Almost desperately, he whispered, “Wakonda, show me how to understand this riddle. For in all this time, I have never guessed it correctly.” Raising his face to the heavens, he cried, “Wakonda, I ask you. How can any man act as that which he possesses?”
There was no answer, unless of course one considered the wind a living entity. But at present, Grey Coyote was too distraught to hear its voice.
The Creator had gone, that was all that mattered, and despondent, Grey Coyote turned away.
His thoughts were gloomy. And why not? In his opinion, his life was practically wasted.
Was this his fate? To drift from one white man’s post to another? Always seeking the man who would fit the description from his vision?
As though in answer, it began to rain. Grey Coyote grimaced. Always, when he failed, the heavens spit rain. Grey Coyote assumed it was another of the Thunderer’s quests to make nothing of him.
Stepping back to the Minnetaree village, Grey Coyote made his way to Big Eagle’s lodge. Entering, he trod toward the fire to pick up the possessions he had won this night, for now that his theories were proved wrong, he would need to keep these hard-won possessions, if only to study them, so he might guess more accurately next time.
Looking up, Grey Coyote observed LaCroix, there against the far wall of the hut. Already, the man stood over the white woman, who was sound asleep. LaCroix bent toward her sleeping form, awakening the woman.
Grey Coyote turned away from the sight, to allow the couple a moment alone in which to say their farewells. He left the lodge as silently as he had entered it.
Besides, there were many other things to be done for departure, more important things, indeed. For one, Grey Coyote should prepare the horses for the journey ahead—both her horse and his would need attending.
Stepping toward the four ponies he now owned—three having been LaCroix’s, one his own—he loaded his possessions onto two of the ponies. These would act as pack horses while the other two could carry himself and the woman.
The woman…
The mere thought of her triggered a physical response, and a very male part of his body twitched as though in anticipation of what was to come. But Grey Coyote contained the reaction, reminding himself that she was his for but a moment. It was Grey Coyote’s intention to take the woman to a white man’s post as soon as he determined what part she played, if any, in his own drama.
Though it was fairly obvious to him that his speculation about her tonight was wrong, for she surely had nothing to do with resolving his own problem, he would study her until he was certain.
Then he would take her to a white man’s post, and there he would leave her, untouched, whole. It was the only honorable way to discharge his responsibility toward her. For though she would be considered his wife, he knew better than most that until he resolved this riddle, his life would not allow for a female in it.
So it was with some degree of chagrin that Grey Coyote heard the wind murmuring in his ear, “The woman,” it whispered. “The woman, Marietta. She is the means…”
“Wake up, mademoiselle. It is time to go.”
Comfortable for the first time in many a night, Marietta turned over and yawned. Lazily, she stretched her arms above her head and peeped open an eye. Except for the fire, the room around her was pitched in complete darkness. But this she had come to expect. Since she had begun this journey, she and the others were almost always up and on the trail before first light.
However, she feared this day might be her toughest yet. From all appearances, the rain hadn’t let up, for it was still pattering wildly against the mud hut. Hardly a thing a woman wanted to hear upon first awakening.
“Ohhh,” she purred and stretched again. “Do I have to get up? This bed is so comfortable, I should like to stay here and rest more tonight. Could we not do it?”
“Non, we must leave here at once. And do not speak so loudly. Others sleep. Here,” whispered LaCroix. “I have made ye a cup of coffee.”
“That was kind of you.” Marietta brought the rawhide cover with her as she sat up. Reaching out toward LaCroix, she accepted the cup—a hollowed-out horn—full of the steaming brew.
She took a sip of the stuff and winced. “Oh! It’s quite bitter, isn’t it?” she commented sleepily.
“Is good for you. Ye drink it while I get the horses ready.”
“I will,” said Marietta. “But have you made some of this brew for Yellow Swan? She should have some too, since I think she might need it more than I. Look at her. She’s still sleeping.”
“Oui, I will do that. But ye do not need to awaken her yet. As ye know, she does not require so long to prepare herself for the day as do ye. Now drink up.”
“Yes, I will.” She took another sip of the coffee. “Hmmm. It rather grows on you, doesn’t it?”
“Oui, drink.”
Marietta did as told, and one sip after another, she finished the entire brew, handing the cup back to a rather anxious-looking LaCroix.
“Get yerself dressed, mademoiselle. I will prepare the horses, and then I will return soon with more coffee for both yerself and Yellow Swan.”
Marietta nodded. But it was odd. She felt suddenly spinny, as though the whole world careened out of control. Worse, she felt…drunk…
“Jacques.” She reached out toward the man. “There is a peculiar feeling coming over me. You didn’t…you didn’t… Jacques, did you put something in that drink? Besides coffee?”
“Oui. But only a dash of corn liquor and—”
“Corn liquor? But why? I don’t drink spirits, because I can’t…because…because…”
“And a trace of laudanum,” said LaCroix.
“Laudanum? But…”
Her words were becoming slurred. Her head spun, her eyes rolled back, and she was aware that she collapsed back against the bed. “Why…did…you?”
The last thing she remembered was the image of Jacques LaCroix leaning over her, saying, “Perhaps it was a bit more than a trace, mademoiselle.”
And then he laughed.
Chapter Four
Black, rain-engorged clouds raced overhead as Grey Coyote set out from the village. Though it was early morning, the day was almost as dusky as night. Thunder rolled above him, water poured down from the heavens as though it meant to flood the land, and lightning forked through an ever-darkening sky.
Iho, this was no mere downpour. The Thunderer, god of the clouds and lightning, followed him. But this occurrence, though perhaps unusual for another, did not startle Grey Coyote. Indeed, for him it was always the same. Since he had been ten winters old, the Thunderer had been his constant bedfellow.
Never a friend, the Thunderer taunted him, laughed at him, antagonized him. In an effort to end his clan’s curse, many were the deeds that Grey Coyote had accomplished which would have been hailed as successful were Grey Coyote a simpler man. But never had any of his accomplishments broken the spell. Each time he failed, the Thunderer jeered at him, mocked and ridiculed him.
No, the rain and thunderstorms followed him, blocked out his sun, left him always in the dark. However, these were such usual occurrences for Grey Coyote that on this day he paid neither god nor weather heed. In truth, the murkiness of the day matched his mood.
Grey Coyote was annoyed. Very annoyed. N
ot with the woman, who was draped in front and against him unconscious. Rather, he was aggravated with himself.
Was the task set before him impossible? Was there no ending this spell?
Grey Coyote had only six or seven moons left in which to undo the curse that plagued his people. Already he was twenty-nine years of age, and by the very conditions of the enchantment itself, if he could not resolve the riddle by his thirtieth birthday, the opportunity to do so would pass. If he missed this chance now, he would never again have another. Indeed, if he failed, he would be relegated to live his life forever humiliated.
Not that his life at present was a joy. In his youth, Grey Coyote had been no stranger to sunshine-filled days, laughter and friendship. But as soon as he had come of age, his existence on this earth had been nothing if not a series of failed attempts and deep losses.
His was a lonely life, made more so because he would not inflict his travails upon anyone else. But then, Grey Coyote was also a scout, and scouts worked best alone, were even trained to take heart in their own company.
However, there were times…
In an effort to end this unproductive line of thought, Grey Coyote took a deep breath and inhaled the invigorating scent of wet skin and wet hair…feminine skin and hair. Like amber curls of sunshine, the woman’s tresses fell back over his shoulder as, unconscious, the white woman leaned back against him. The touch of those locks across him was as sweet as a caress, and despite himself, Grey Coyote was not of a mood to end it by setting her away from him.
Glancing down at the woman’s oval face, he speculated that perhaps she was prettier close up than from a distance. Her lips were full—the color of a pale rose—her skin was unblemished and satiny, and her cheeks were alive with the hue of a crimson sunset.
He wondered if it had really been necessary to force the white man’s liquor and drugs on her. Had she loved LaCroix so much? Or had she merely balked at the idea of her loyalties being transferred to another?
Whatever the case, LaCroix’s actions had disturbed Grey Coyote. It was one thing to take things from a man, another to cart away an unwilling wife.
But what was done was done, he reasoned philosophically. Since it was too late to change it—not that he could—both he and the woman would have to abide by what was to be.
Yet, already it was as he had feared. Though only traveling for the better part of the morning, he was finding the woman more than a little distracting. Of course it didn’t help that the feel of her skin was soft beneath his fingers, or that she smelled enticing, or that she was so scantily dressed.
Here was another matter for fruitful thought. He couldn’t help observing again how odd was the white woman’s form of apparel. In one of his bags he carried her clothes, and there were many of them. Not only a dress, but some stiff article that felt as though it were made of the most rigid rawhide. Plus, there was a lacy pair of clothing that looked much like the white man’s pants. There were also mounds of other frilly articles, slips, delicate things that Grey Coyote could barely understand.
Where did the woman wear them all?
At present, perhaps because she had been taken while still abed, she wore only a thin, white slip of a garment, one which, beneath the heavy rain, accentuated her figure’s every curve and valley. Grey Coyote could only wonder how LaCroix had expected her to keep warm.
Certainly, the style in which she was attired didn’t help still his need, not when her buttocks bore in against him. Indeed, the feel of her before him was becoming pure torture, and to add to matters, the movement of the horse beneath him was luring Grey Coyote toward a physical pleasure that he did not dare indulge.
Maybe it would have been easier for him if he had been with a woman sometime in these past few months. But he had not.
Therein lay the problem. Physically Grey Coyote needed a woman, but emotionally he required peace. Though what peace he would find until he solved his riddle and freed his people was seriously in question.
One thing, however, was certain. Every moment in these next several moons was precious. He could little afford to do anything but endeavor to end the curse. Courting a woman had no place in his life.
Unless she were a part of this. And she could not very well be. His guess, which had involved her, had been incorrect.
Hunhe-hunhe, she was a mere distraction. Nothing more, nothing less. And the sooner he returned her to her own people, the better.
At the next trading post—which was less than a moon away—he would leave her there. In the meantime, he would do well to keep his honor, to behave himself and put distance between them, for she seemed to be made for temptation.
A temptation he would not indulge.
But even as he thought it, his arm tightened around her, and he pulled her in toward him. Taking a deep breath, he sighed.
Marietta became aware gradually that she was drenched, and she was getting wetter by the minute. Large raindrops hit her forehead, her neck and breast. Had she fallen under a waterfall, or had the mud hut washed out to the river?
It was with a shock she realized she had no recollection of what had happened or where she was. How had she come to be leaning against another human being? Slowly, she drew in her breath, and without daring to move her head—which had fallen back on a muscular shoulder—she opened her eyes and peeked downward.
Sure enough, she was sitting astride a horse, and there was an arm around her middle…a buckskin-clad arm. Curiously, she studied the brown-tanned hand of her captor, noting the long fingers…fingers that held her tightly within their grasp.
This was not the hand of Jacques LaCroix.
Where was she?
Gradually, gently, so as not to alert the one who held her, she turned her head to the side, glancing upward at her captor’s face.
She gasped aloud.
“Careful,” said a male voice in English, his words colored with an unusual accent. He gazed down at her. “You might frighten the horses.”
Horses?
Again, she chanced a glance upward. This time she sat upright and screamed.
It was an Indian holding her, one who was painted for war, or at least he might have been once upon a time. The paint was almost gone now, rivulets of it running down his face.
The man sighed before he said, on a note that held little patience, “If you must wail like a child now that you are awake, I will have to place a cloth around your mouth. I fear that if you scream again, you will scare the horses.”
Scare the horses? What about her?
Where was she? Who was this man? Where was LaCroix? Yellow Swan? What had happened?
She couldn’t remember anything, except an early morning, Jacques LaCroix offering her coffee, and…
“He…he…” As the previous events fell quickly into place, she stumbled on her words, fearing to speak. After a moment, she could no longer hold her tongue. “You…you drugged me.”
“I have done no such thing,” said the man, whose arm still remained around her, as though to steady her.
“No, but you managed to bribe my guide to do it for you, didn’t you?”
“Hiya. You are upset. That is to be expected, but do not accuse me of things that I have not done.”
It was odd. The man’s voice, sounding quietly bored, seemed to reach out to her. And although it calmed her, Marietta was beyond such tactics. “If not that, then why am I here?” She scooted forward as well as she could, trying to put distance between her hips and this man’s. But the pony was small.
“Before he put you to sleep, did your husband not tell you all that was to happen?”
“Husband?”
“Hau, husband.”
Marietta shook her head, hoping to clear her thoughts. Had she gone to sleep only to awaken in a different time and place?
When she shot another glance behind her to better see her enemy, her eyes met those the exact color of the blackest night. Her stomach dropped.
This was not simply an Indian. T
his was the man from the Minnetaree village, the same one who had been gambling with Jacques LaCroix, the man she had dared to think might be handsome.
And he had stolen her.
Glaring at him, she murmured, “I remember you.”
She witnessed his brief nod before he gave her a considering glance. “I am surprised.”
“Surprised?” She waited in vain for an explanation.
After several moments he said, “Perhaps your husband did not make his meaning understood.”
Marietta opened her mouth to refute that word, husband, but the Indian was continuing. “I won the game of Cos-soo. You were part of the winnings, and—”
“I was what?”
The man behind her drew in yet another long breath, as though he were weary of the whole affair. In a voice he might have used to address a five-year-old, he said slowly, “Your husband told me that he…informed you of this before he gave you too much corn liquor.”
“Before he…?” She gulped. “Pardon me, Mister… Ah, I don’t know your name.”
The Indian didn’t answer the indirect question.
Marietta tried once more. “Mister…? You do have a name, don’t you?”
The man still didn’t reply, and Marietta attempted again to scoot forward.
At length, the man sat up, appearing like he were about to say something of importance, but he hesitated, while Marietta held her breath. “A warrior does not speak his own name.”
“Oh.” Marietta shot a glance over her shoulder. “Then what am I to call you?”
He shrugged but didn’t enlighten her.
Marietta closed her eyes and shook her very wet head. “Oh, this is perfect. Well, Mr…” she hesitated, “…Rainmaker-who-steals-women…”
She thought she saw him smile, but the gesture was so swiftly gone, she was not certain of it.
Another silence ensued. However, after a moment or two, she squared back her shoulders and began, “Well, Mr. Rainmaker, as I was saying, this may come as a shock to you, but I am not married. I have no husband.”
