“Lucky for them.” Feigning exasperation—or so he suspected—she spun and headed toward the small building that served as the school house.
Still chuckling, he obediently followed, but paused beside her on the porch. “I’ll get some more wood from the back.” He boldly brushed her hand, drifting his fingers across hers. “And be right in.”
She swallowed and nodded. “Thank you.”
As he built the fire in the stove, she shuffled around the small room, placing primers on all the desks. Her movements were too fast, a little jittery. He wondered if he made her nervous. Did she harbor second-thoughts about their kiss? Only one way to find out. “I could make a habit of this,” he said, striking a match and putting it to the little curls of pine shavings.
“Of…?”
“Of warming you.” He shook the match, blew out the little flame, and watched with satisfaction as the flames spread, took hold of the larger pieces. His task accomplished, he closed the stove door and rose, surprised to find her staring at him with an almost pained expression.
“Would you,” she asked softly. “Make it a habit?”
He understood she was asking about much more than the fire. Without hesitation, he crossed the room and took the books from her. Setting them aside, he lifted her chin. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps a dog and a cat can be together. If you would want it.”
He leaned down and kissed her. Kissed her again, then pressed his lips to her forehead, roping in the danger touching her could unleash. She sighed and leaned into him, her hand resting lightly on his chest. “I’m not sure what I want. I’m a woman, not a girl, Long Feather. A woman should know her mind. You confuse me…and distract me from why I’m here.”
He released her and backed away, though all he wanted was to sweep her into his arms. “If you do not wish to be distracted, I will leave you to your school and your students…and your God.”
The play of emotions across her face fascinated him, though he could not read any of them. He saw a struggle—indecision, confusion—in her pinched brow and tense lips. He let the battle play out, knowing she would speak or her face would say what was in her heart.
Finally, she sighed and he heard surrender in the soft breath. “When I go back to the reservation on Friday, would you escort me?”
Once outside, Long Feather inhaled a deep, bracing lungful of cold air. It cleared his head, cooled his blood. She had given him a path. Where would it lead? Was it wise to pursue a relationship with a white woman? It would please no one here at the ranch, and very few of the Cheyenne. He glanced back at the small schoolhouse.
And she did not care. Laurie’s stubborn courage gave him strength.
He reminded himself, though, that his mind wandering to her constantly was not wise or healthy. He needed to focus on work, on Joel, on getting them both ready for the rodeo. Reaching in his pockets, he pulled his gloves free and started working into them as Glenn approached him. The grim set of the white man’s jaw and the glint in his eyes warned Long Feather this would again be an unpleasant conversation.
Glenn strode up and stabbed a gloved finger into Long Feather’s chest. “What do you think you’re doing, boy?”
Several inches shorter than Long Feather, the man snorted and glared as if he were an angry bear and not a little badger. But it would take much more than this huffing, stomping cowboy to ruin a good day. Long Feather shoved Glenn’s finger aside. “What do you want?”
Glenn put the finger back, gouging it into Long Feather this time. “If you think for one second I’m gonna let a dirty redskin make eyes at Miss Laurie—”
Something dark and primal burst in Long Feather. His long-suffering patience with pathetic, foolish, over-confident white men vanished like a streak of lightning and he struck Glenn’s chest with open hands, knocking the man back, and nearly sending him to the ground. Long Feather planted his feet and curled his fists. Glenn straightened, started to lunge forward, but stopped. The snap of fury evident in the cowboy’s burning gaze, the sneer lifting his lip, melted away replaced with…? Not fear, but at least uncertainty.
Long Feather smiled with the satisfaction of a warrior eager to fight. “This dirty, long-in-the-tooth Indian will lift your scalp and leave you alive to explain your scars.” A fate worse than death for some white men.
Glenn’s jaw tightened. So much, Long Feather thought he might break his own teeth clenching them like that. But then the man exhaled slowly, as if letting go of the fight. Once again, he pointed a leather finger at Long Feather, but seemed careful not to touch him. “Watch your back, redskin. You just watch your back.”
23
Joel and Long Feather were a mile out from the ranch moving a herd of heifers before Joel realized the two men had barely spoken. True, he was distracted and Long Feather was never a chatterbox, but he sensed his friend was ruminating on something today. Flexing cold fingers, Joel dared to point out the obvious. “It strikes me we both have some things on our minds.”
Long Feather grunted but kept his gaze on the herd.
Joel sucked on his teeth, whistled, and waved his rope at a slow-moving heifer. Grunting seemed appropriate for both of them really. Joel didn’t feel like talking and, if he did, Long Feather would just offer his sage advice that made all kinds of sense. So Joel kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want sense. He didn’t want to worry about what would happen to Angela once he left. He knew only that he had to leave.
He glanced over at his friend, tall, strong, and straight, riding along in a saddle today. Strands of his black hair streaming out behind him, the single feather twirling in the breeze. But Joel also noticed the pinch in his brow, the grim set of his jaw. Yes, he was troubled by something as well.
“Care to talk about it? I’ll listen.”
At first Long Feather gave no sign he’d heard Joel, but then pursed his lips and nodded. “Do you believe whites and Indians will ever live together as just men…as if we were the same?”
The question pierced Joel’s heart. War cries, bloody scalps, dismembered bodies, burning flesh—the memories leaped to mind with the jarring clarity of ice water thrown in his face. Bloodthirsty warriors had earned most soldiers’ hatred and contempt. Joel thought it was safe to assume most warriors felt the same way about the soldiers, who had committed their fair share of atrocities as well. Threats to completely annihilate the red man had come from the highest places in the government and the US Army was more than happy to carry out the orders.
“I see by your face, you would say no.”
“There’s been so much harm done, by both sides.” Joel shook his head. “Honestly, it grieves me the way most of our people feel about each other.” Letting go of the hatred wouldn’t happen overnight. Maybe not even in a generation—if ever?
“It must start somewhere. There must be…”
Joel thought he understood. “Friendship. There must be people willing to put the past aside. Like you and I.”
For a moment, the distant look in Long Feather’s eyes made Joel wonder if the man was thinking of someone else, but then he nodded. “Yes,” he said solemnly. “You and I could be a start. We must be the ones to see past color, past our differences, and see only the heart.”
With thoughtful, plodding steps, Long Feather led his and Joel’s horses into the barn. A certain pretty rancher’s daughter had waylaid his friend on the way in. Unfortunately, the woman of Long Feather’s interest had ridden out that morning with an army captain and his escort. The military was again scouring the Wyoming plains for horses and General Fairbanks had volunteered them to transport Miss Laurie to the reservation. She’d had only an instant to wave good-bye before climbing into the wagon. But Long Feather would see her in a day or so. He did not mind his trips—albeit short—to the reservation now, if he knew she was there.
He tied each horse in front of a stall and commenced to settling them in for the night. As he stripped the tack off Joel’s horse, he wondered again if the general had arranged Miss Lauri
e’s military escort with a purpose. Had Glenn spoken of his suspicions? Would the general disapprove if the white missionary had eyes for an injun? And if he did disapprove, if he dared voice it, what would Long Feather do? The thought troubled him.
The general needed Long Feather and his horse whispering gift more than Long Feather needed the general. Long Feather’s family on the reservation needed what he could supply them with from the white man’s world but could survive without it. In truth, Long Feather felt above both places. He was not a defeated Indian living in squalor nor was he a cowboy riding for Fairbanks’ brand. He was his own man. One small battle he had won.
Or so he had believed. What if his freedom was taken away? What if the general decided he couldn’t stomach an Indian taking up with a white woman? If the reservation was Long Feather’s only place to go, would he choose it? Her?
Curry comb in hand, he paused with it at the piebald’s neck. He hated the idea of living that penned-in life, begging for scraps from the White Man. Being told where and how to live, what to plant, what to buy, how much meat they could eat, when and if they could hunt.
He dragged the comb down the horse’s sweat-stained withers and across her shoulder. He loved these beasts. He’d been born to whisper to them, train them. But as much pleasure as this gave him, shining blue eyes and gleaming golden hair divided his attention.
“General wants to see you.”
Long Feather did not look up at the cowboy. He recognized the high pitched, nasally-twang of the young hand named Hank. One of the few men on the ranch who seemed to have no problem with Indians or blacks.
“Here,” the boy stepped over and reached for the curry comb. “I’ll finish for ya. The general seemed sorta intent.”
Long Feather pondered what that could mean, but nodded and handed off the comb. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“Not to me.”
Long Feather let himself into the general’s house and paused in the foyer. Flickering light and the clink of crystal directed him to the study. He found the big man holding a tumbler full of whiskey and staring into the fire. Long Feather rapped softly on the door frame to announce his presence.
The general turned. Glittering, narrowed eyes spoke volumes before he uttered a word. For an instant, Long Feather had to fight not to feel like a mischievous brave about to be whipped with a switch. He cleared his throat and stood a little taller. “You wanted to see me.”
“I heard a rumor you’ve been making eyes at Miss Laurie.”
Long Feather offered no reply. He didn’t know how to respond. In truth, it was not any of the general’s business.
“Got nothing to say to that?”
“I work your horses for you, general. They sell well and win your rodeos. That does not give you the right to discuss anything else with me.”
Fairbanks’ face hardened. His lip twitched as if he was fighting a sneer. “You’ve always been an arrogant pain in my—” he jabbed the glass at him, sloshing a little whiskey over the edge, “but lately, you’re worse. Helping out that cripple, going after a white woman and just expecting me to allow it—”
“Allow it?” Long Feather was not an overly prideful man, but he did retain some, nonetheless. Another of those small battles he’d won.
“Yes, I said allow it.” The general slammed his drink down on his desk and marched over to be eye-to-eye with Long Feather. “You could use a lesson on manners. This is my ranch and you’re my hand. My hands ride for the brand, do what they’re told.”
“I’ve never been one of your hands, general,” Long Feather said, keeping his voice low and even. “Don’t pretend I have.”
Fairbanks held on to a glare for a moment, but Long Feather didn’t return it. After a moment the old man sagged and backed away. “Get out.” He chucked a thumb toward the door. “See to those new ponies in the morning.” With that he swiveled away from Long Feather and strode back to the fire.
24
Leaving—slinking out—in the middle of the night went against everything in Joel, but staying wasn’t an option. How could he? Being near Angela was becoming an exquisite torture.
He picked up his valise and released a quiet breath. She slept fitfully in the bed they never shared. Bathed in moonlight, locks of soft, auburn hair spilling around her, she was stunning, beautiful, and innocent. His “wife.”
Wife.
If only.
And it could not be. Quietly, he slipped from the room, navigated an unfamiliar house in the dark, and made it to the porch. A full moon illuminated the expansive but silent barnyard. Frost glittered like diamond dust on every surface.
He planned to borrow a horse, ride it into town, catch the first stage out, and send for his things later. Maybe Cheyenne would hold some interest for him. If not, Deadwood wasn’t much beyond it.
He stepped down onto the frosty walk. A grunt from somewhere inside the barn arrested his attention. Or had he imagined the sound?
No, he heard it again, along with a fleshy thud, and instantly recognized the sound of a fight. Wielding his cane, he hobbled his way toward the dark, cavernous opening, hoping he could stay out of any cowboy squabbles. He merely wanted a horse and a quick departure.
A light glowed from the back and the thuds, grunts, and smacks of a thrashing continued, only now accompanied by wicked laughter. A sliver of unease curled up Joel’s spine. If he could, he would avoid entanglement, but something told him that wasn’t in the cards.
Wary, he eased his way down the center aisle until he came to the last stall on the right. Two men held a sagging, bloody Long Feather while a cowboy—Glenn, was it?—struck the Indian’s face, and laughed as if the beating was pure entertainment.
Long Feather’s face was puffy and bloody. His right eye had swollen closed. Blood drenched his lips. He wavered as if his legs might buckle any second.
Fury coursed through Joel. He dropped his valise and raised his cane. “Let him go.”
Glenn spun, his own fists up high. “This is none of your affair, soldier. Cut a path outta here.”
“It takes three men to beat one Indian?” He glanced at Long Feather who shook his head, warning Joel away. Joel wasn’t about to comply. “You boys would never make it in the United States Cavalry. We shape the odds the other way around.”
“That’s big talk from a one-legged blue belly.” Glenn took a step toward him. “If you weren’t minus a leg, maybe we’d let Long Feather stew a minute and teach you some manners.”
Joel held back a bitter chuckle and raised his fists. “I don’t need both legs to whip a low-life coward like you.”
Glenn’s eyes widened, but then a grim determination cemented itself in his expression, lifted his lip in a sneer. “Hold on to Long Feather, boys,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of the Indian lover.”
Joel’s hope rose a little. He could smell whiskey in the air. These three were lit like candles on a Christmas tree. And if he only had to fight one, he might come out of this in something akin to one piece.
Glenn wasted no time. He stepped in and swung, probably thinking to catch Joel off guard. He nearly did, but Joel ducked the punch and rapped Glenn across the skull with the cane, the strike emitting a loud crack.
Glenn staggered back, clutching his head, shrieking like a demon. “Aaawch!”
“Come on, Glenn, don’t take that,” one of the men holding Long Feather goaded.
Glenn’s face purpled with fury. He charged Joel like a raging bull. Joel waited till the last second, leaned to the left, and let Glenn trip over the prosthetic. The cowboy pinwheeled down into the hay and muck.
So far this is easy.
The thought was too soon and darn cocky. Glenn tossed a handful of dirt into Joel’s eyes, then tackled him, hitting him in the mid-section. The air ooofed out of Joel’s lungs from the force of Glenn’s shoulder driving into him. His cane flew from his hand. The two of them hit the ground and Glenn followed up with a hammer blow to Joel’s jaw, a punch t
hat felt like exploding dynamite in his head.
And it was followed by another punch, just as hard and jarring.
Get up or get hammered, soldier boy!
Joel blocked a punch, hit Glenn with a jab to the left eye, and rolled the man off him. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, and Glenn matched him. The two faced off again.
“Come on, Glenn, finish him off.” The other man, holding Long Feather, jerked the Indian’s shoulder back and forth as he yelled the order. “Stomp him out.”
Glenn pushed silvery blond hair out of his eyes, wiped sweat off his glistening beard with the back of his hand. The man’s face was red in places and swelling, especially that eye.
With two legs and swift feet, Joel had no doubt he could have beaten this man. Now, however, he felt slow, clumsy, simply unable to move as fast as he wanted. But he was, at least, still in the fight.
Glenn swung at Joel. Joel blocked, struck the man hard in the ribs once, twice, a third time before Glenn managed a solid hook to Joel’s cheek bone. He jabbed Joel again in the face, the strike fogging his brain, and he staggered back. His wooden leg didn’t move fast enough and he stumbled.
Glenn took advantage and hit Joel square in the nose. Shooting stars filled his vision and warm blood gushed forth, streaming down into his mouth. His eyes watered from the pain of the blow. Another strike and he found himself on his hands and knees, thoughts interweaving with misery, blood, and confusion.
“Let’s finish the Indian.” Glenn’s voice sounded muffled, far away.
No. Joel tried to speak. Why couldn’t he…?
He heard the smack of fist on flesh. Long Feather grunted. Another smack.
“No.” He shook his head, but still the word was only a whisper. He took a deep breath, let the anger rise in him again. He staggered to his feet. “No!” Swinging, he dove at the men, all of them bringing their fists down on anything they could find.
The Brides of Evergreen Box Set Page 48
