by Janis Jakes
“Are you done with your soup?”
“Yes and thank you. It was good.”
She stood up to go.
Luke’s opportunity was slipping by. “Is Billie OK?”
“Yes. She is protected.” She stood at the entry, the half-empty soup bowl in her hand. “Why is it you do not desire me? Am I not pretty enough?”
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “You know that.”
“Then what is it?” Her voice turned stern.
“We’re from different worlds. I wouldn’t be happy in yours, and you wouldn’t be happy in mine.”
Defiance darkened her eyes. “How do you know I wouldn’t be happy in yours?”
“I just know.”
“It doesn’t matter what you know. Tomorrow, we will marry. My father will see to it.”
“White Feather, you don’t want to do this. Trust me.”
“You trust me,” she said. “It is already done.” White Feather dropped the teepee flap and walked out
Luke groaned and began to pray.
Billie was most likely praying, too.
15
Luke fought against falling asleep, but the medicine would not let him stay awake. Before he closed his eyes, he prayed for God to heal him and make a way out of the situation he faced. Tomorrow, White Feather expected him to marry her. Her father, the war chief, intended to make sure it happened—even though it was obvious he despised the thought.
As the early afternoon light shone through the teepee, his strength returned. He rose, sitting up straight to give his head a chance to stop spinning. An idea came to him during the night—an idea that might save Billie’s life, even if it cost him his own.
He reached inside the lining of his trousers where he always kept a knife carefully sewed into the fabric. He tugged on the tacking and slid the sharp blade from its hiding place. With a determined bent to his brow, he made his way to the teepee entry. He peeled back the flap. Just as he suspected, a couple of young braves stood watch.
Both jumped when they saw him standing at the entrance.
“Go get Mighty Bow,” Luke ordered. “I need to have a word with him.”
One disappeared while the other stared, mouth slightly agape. Luke glanced around. There were no more than twelve teepees. It looked like only the council had come to witness the wedding. The rest of the tribe must have stayed behind, waiting for their return.
The young warrior pulled himself together, speaking in rough English. “Be good to her, or I will kill you myself.”
“Good to whom?” Luke asked.
“White Feather.”
“So, you are in love with her, too. Like half the men in the tribe.”
“Only a fool would not be,” he stammered in indignation. “She can shoot an arrow like a falcon can catch a rat. And she is beautiful like a flower. More beautiful than anyone I have ever seen. Her children will be chiefs. What man would not be honored to have White Feather at his side?”
Luke walked back inside, sat down and waited for Mighty Bow to appear. When the great chief walked into the teepee, he rose out of respect. “Thank you for coming.”
Mighty Bow grunted and sat.
Luke sat opposite him. “I know you do not want me to marry your daughter. I’m not sure why she wants to marry me. And as beautiful as she is—the most beautiful woman in the entire tribe—I do not wish to marry her. I would not want to live with the Comanche.”
“What you want does not matter. You will do as my daughter wishes.”
“Yes,” Luke said. “I will. But only after I see Billie on her horse and riding away with no one following after her.”
He snorted. “You think you can barter? Like guns for whiskey? My daughter for your woman?”
“I’ve already said,” Luke began. “Billie is not my woman.”
“I do not agree to your terms.”
Luke showed him the knife. “I will cut the vein on my neck and bleed to death right here in this teepee.” He did not flinch. “You know I will do it.”
“I would stop you,” the proud warrior stated with certainty.
“You might. But your daughter would be disgraced.”
Mighty Bow frowned. “We do not want the white woman. She would only bring trouble. She can leave.”
“But first I want to see her and make sure she is well.”
“You do not trust me?”
Luke shook his head in disbelief. “You about knocked my head off and kidnapped us both. I want to see her for myself. That’s not too much to ask.”
“Very well.” Mighty Bow stood at the teepee entrance. “Bring me the white woman.” He turned back around, motioning for Luke to stand. “Come outside. There is more for you to see.”
With the knife firmly in his grasp, he stepped out into the center of the teepees. They formed a full circle with a small fire in the middle.
From Luke’s peripheral vision, he saw the young warrior bringing Billie toward him. Her hands were tied behind her back. Strands of copper hair fell about her shoulders, but other than that, she looked unharmed.
“Luke…” Tears filled her eyes but did not fall.
Several braves and a few older tribesmen stepped out of their tents. White Feather appeared, standing beside her mother and a younger sister.
Mighty Bow stood several inches taller than all the other men. His booming voice commanded attention, and his overpowering presence demanded respect. “Our brother has asked that we let his woman go free.”
“She is not my woman,” Luke said.
“Then, you don’t mind if we give her to another?” Mighty Bow teased.
“She’s not yours to give. She is her own.”
“After she is gone, we will celebrate,” Mighty Bow stated. “Luke and White Feather will marry.”
White Feather lifted her chin, though her eyes remained on her father.
A native man stepped from the woods, drawing everyone’s attention. The man stood tall and regal, just as large as Mighty Bow but with a familiar look to his eyes that caused Luke’s mind to spin out of control. How was it possible? He had not seen his father in more than a decade. Yet here he stood, looking older but somehow the same.
“My son will not marry your daughter,” he said.
Billie’s eyes widened, and she turned toward Luke.
He offered a comforting bob of his head, though he wasn’t sure what was about to happen.
“You do not usually participate in the council,” Mighty Bow said. “You are a lone wolf who comes and goes as he pleases. You have no right to speak.”
“I have every right.” The man stepped near. “My son is not bound to marry your daughter. He is free to marry whom he wills.”
“As much as I would like my daughter to choose another,” Mighty Bow continued, though more subdued. “She has chosen. She will marry your son.”
“But my son has not chosen her. This marriage will not be.”
Luke felt the hairs on the back on his neck rise. The situation was escalating. That was never a good sign. He appreciated his long, lost father coming to his defense, but Mighty Bow was right. His father was a lone wolf. Why he chose to appear now, Luke wasn’t sure. Was he an answer to prayer or the evidence of his impending death?
“My father swore I could marry any native I chose,” White Feather stated, her voice cracking through the air like the sting of a whip. “I choose your son.”
“Yes,” Luke’s father said. “Mighty Bow did make such a promise. I was there when he said those words. But Luke is not a native. He never finished the rite of passage. He is not a true Comanche. He is a white man. You will choose another.”
Mighty Bow looked to Luke. “Is this true?”
Luke paused. His answer mattered. “It is true.”
The war chief almost smiled but refrained. “Then, he is right.” He looked to his daughter. “You are free to marry any native you choose. Luke is not a native. He is born of the white woman and woven into the white woman’
s ways. He is not Comanche.”
Her eyes narrowed, turning upon Luke’s father. “This is your fault. Why did you come back now?”
“Because my son needs me.”
“Then if we will not marry,” White Feather began, hatred seething from her tone and the hardness of her glare. “We kill his woman. What is she to us?”
Billie’s jaw dropped, but she struggled to regain her composure. The hands of the warriors tightened on her arms. “I have done nothing to you. Why would you—”
“Let the white woman go,” his father said. “She is already wanted for murder in the white world.”
Luke frowned but remained silent. How could his father possibly know that fact?
“The white man will kill her. Why should we? This is not the time to go to war. She is not worth the blood of our braves.” Luke’s father stood firm.
Mighty Bow looked to the young warriors holding Billie’s arms. “Set her free.”
White Feather’s brows pinched together in anger as she struck Luke with a pointed stare. “I will call down the spirits of our ancestors upon you. You look Comanche, but your heart is turned from your people. They will destroy you! You do not belong in our world or any other world.”
Luke figured she was wrong. God had made him exactly as he should be. He prayed for the tribe, but his trust rested upon his faith in God. With doubts settled and God’s mercy tenderly applied to his heart, Luke was determined to hold onto his faith even harder than before.
“I will show you the way back to your path,” his father said, speaking directly to Luke and ignoring Billie. “Then you are free to go where you choose.” His gaze shifted to Mighty Bow. “If that is acceptable with the council.”
Mighty Bow gave him a dismissive bob of his head. “Go.”
White Feather turned and stomped away, leaving Luke wondering if he’d truly heard the last of her. She was not a woman used to being told “No”. She was the war chief’s daughter and war coursed through her blood in fiery, red rage.
Luke motioned for Billie.
The two braves released their hold and she walked toward him.
“Turn around.” She did, without question. He removed her leather bonds with a firm yank. “You’re free.” Then he lifted his chin. “We’re both free. Let’s go.”
16
“Did the natives harm you?” Luke asked, his gaze piercing as he examined her from head to foot for injuries.
A flush rose upon her cheeks at that pointed stare. “No. But one woman threatened to cut off my nose and another threatened to boil me and eat me alive.”
Luke’s father laughed aloud. “We do not eat people—especially white people. It would make us ill. Keep us running to the bushes.”
Billie laughed, with relief. Despite the amusement she saw in Luke’s eyes, she also sensed something else simmering beneath the surface—a dark brooding, like a distant storm drawing near to blue skies at a slow, but threatening pace.
Luke’s father led the way. She didn’t know his name yet and hesitated to ask. She knew many years had passed since the two had talked. What were they thinking now? She could not imagine the emotions surging about their hearts and minds, yet they remained stoic and silent.
They rode for almost an hour, no one speaking as the trail dipped, twisted, and finally came to a clearing. A stream rolled from the hillside, cutting a wide path of moving water. Tall trees stood off in the distance, dense but welcoming. A whitetail doe bounded off into the foliage, disappearing from sight.
Luke’s father waited for him at a steep rise. He pointed to a high place just before the stream crossing. “See that path?”
“Yes. It’s the place we were resting before I got knocked on the head.” Silence hung between them for several seconds before Luke asked, almost accusatory. “Is this where you say good-bye?”
“Before we part ways. Let’s fish.”
“Fish?”
“Yes.”
Luke glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze lingering upon Billie’s features. “Looks as if we’re fishing.”
“Fishing sounds good,” she said, not wanting to cause any disruption. Besides, she was hungry, and the thought of fish in her belly sounded quite pleasant.
In just a few minutes, Luke’s father had speared five fish—enough for them to share.
Luke had sent her on a mission to find berries, and she’d come back with her hands full.
Over dinner, she learned his father’s name was Walking Stick. He’d been thin in his younger years, and everyone teased him, but as he’d grown older, the name remained. He was still lean, but more muscular and with chiseled features, much like his son.
As they sat around the fire, Walking Stick finished the last of his fish and slumped forward, looking older than she’d noticed before. It was odd how his expression never changed. Whether he joked or gave instruction, his features remained somber. Only his eyes seemed to laugh or show sorrow—never his face.
The older man spoke, looking into the dying embers of the fire. “I was sorry to hear of your mother’s death.”
“You and I will get along better if you do not mention her,” Luke said with a sudden iciness.
Billie’s spine stiffened. Would they argue or fight?
Walking Stick did not speak for several seconds. “The woman who set her house on fire died in a fire of her own making.”
Luke’s chest rose then fell.
Billie wished the conversation would cease. She feared the storm would overtake them all.
“Now how can I forgive her?” Luke asked his father.
“I do not know,” Walking Stick replied.
Billie rose. “I should leave you two alone.” She looked back to where the horses nibbled grass near the tree line. “I’ll check on the horses.”
“Don’t go,” Luke said, almost as if it were an order.
Drawn to those dark eyes—penetrating and hard yet tender at the same time—Billie paused. Could any man stir more conflicting emotions within her soul? One minute she wanted to run from him, and the next, she wanted to run into his arms. Nothing made sense, except for an inner knowing that the two men needed this time alone. Walking Stick would soon depart, and their moment, perhaps their last, would vanish.
“You need this,” she said to Luke. “More than you know.”
She turned and hurried away before he had a chance to call her name again.
~*~
“She is a wise woman,” Walking Stick said. “You would do well to have her by your side in life. She sees with her heart. Not just her eyes.”
“I do not need courting advice from you,” Luke snapped. After several more seconds of silence, he exhaled hard. “I don’t know what to think. I haven’t seen you in almost ten years. Then you show up to rescue me, and I’m supposed to be grateful.”
“No one said you had to be grateful. I came because you are my son. I have watched you grow, Luke. You have not seen me, but I have seen you. I watched you learn to shoot. I watched how you took care of your mother. You’ve become the man I always wanted you to become.”
Luke swallowed hard. There were so many words he wanted to say. He’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times. But now, his mind felt numb with confusion. The anger seemed grotesque in the face of this man who no longer looked larger than life. The very emotion that had sustained him now seemed to betray him.
Walking Stick turned toward him for the first time since they’d sat down, giving him his full attention. Wrinkles lined the edge of his eyes and lips. Gray hair wove throughout the magnificent black braids. “You may not have finished the Comanche rite of passage, but you’ve become more of a man than most I’ve met. I will name you Golden Warrior.”
“Golden Warrior.” Luke blinked in confusion. “Why?”
“You are mighty and strong, like your mother—the woman with the golden hair and a warrior’s heart.”
Luke rose. He wasn’t sure what to say or if he should say anything. “My mother lov
ed you. Why didn’t you stay?”
“The war chief gave you that answer. I am a lone wolf who finds no rest with others. If I could have stayed anywhere, it would have been with your mother.”
His answer annoyed Luke. “Don’t just say words to make things all right between us. You abandoned me. You abandoned Abigail. But most importantly, you abandoned your wife.”
Walking Stick rose slowly. “Do you think your life would have been better if I’d stayed?” He shook his head. “No, Luke. Your neighbors would have pushed you away—fearful of the savage who lived amongst them. We’d already seen it happen. It hurt your mother, and I could not bear to see her cry another tear because of me.”
His words were truth. His mother had told him so. Still, that did not make the reality of rejection hurt any less. Even now, it felt like the tip of a barb—a painful reminder of all he’d missed.
“That is just an excuse not to live up to your responsibilities,” Luke said. “A way to make what you did sound honorable in your own ears. But speak the truth. It is just us here—father and son. You left because you could and because you wanted to leave. No other reason.”
“I was young, and I thought I was doing what was best.”
“Best for whom?”
Walking Stick looked away. “Perhaps I should go now.”
“No,” Luke said. “You came back, and now I deserve the chance to speak.” The wind seemed to rise out of nowhere, a gentle breeze that sifted throughout the trees. “I needed you growing up. I always needed you, and you weren’t there. Abigail needed you, and our mother needed you.”
“The winter that lasted too long when your food storage was empty, I was the one who left fresh meat at your door. You thought it was someone from your church. When your sister became ill and almost died from food poisoning, I brought the remedy and left it on the step so your mother would find it. You thought it was a neighbor or even an angel. When your sister had the little girl who died, I was there. When Henry was born, I waited outside the house for days—listening to your sister’s cries of pain and then her tears of joy. Do not say I was not there. I was there. Always in the shadows, but there.”
