The Spirit Path

by Madeline Baker

  He sensed her presence even before she came up beside him.

  “Do you like it?” Maggie asked.

  “It makes me uneasy. How did you come by a painting of me?”

  “I drew it,” Maggie said. “I…” She paused. It sounded so bizarre, so intimate, to say she had dreamed of him, but he deserved to know the truth. “I saw you in a dream one night and I painted you as I remembered.” She took a deep breath. “Do you have a horse like that?”

  “Ohitika.”

  “It means brave, right?”

  Shadow Hawk nodded. “You have not told me why you called me here.”

  “I didn’t. It isn’t possible to call someone through time.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said, flashing that heart-stopping grin again. “But I am here.”

  “Yes,” Maggie murmured in English. “You are.” She stared up at his profile, admiring the strong square jaw, the line of his mouth, the curve of his cheek. “Maybe you can go back the way you came,” she suggested, and wondered why the thought of his leaving made her so unhappy.

  “I will try,” he said, the need to know what had happened to his mother and his people strong within him, “but I must wait until the moon is full again.”

  “Of course,” Maggie said, laughing softly. “Magic is always done best in the light of a full moon.”

  He turned and looked down at her, and she felt the warmth of his smile wash over her like sunshine on a summer day.

  “I should get back to work,” she said, feeling suddenly flustered. “Veronica has lunch waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  “Spirit Woman.”

  Maggie paused at the doorway. “What?”

  “Have you a name?”

  “Maggie,” she answered quietly. “Maggie St. Claire.”

  “Mag-gie,” he murmured, and the sound of his voice, deep and resonant, sent a thrill of excitement down her spine.

  “Bob-by has asked me to go into town with him.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Well, if you decide to go with him, you should get dressed.”

  “I am dressed.”

  “I mean you should wear the kind of clothes Bobby wears.”

  Hawk glanced down at his clout and moccasins. “What is wrong with what I have on?”

  “Nothing, but most people aren’t accustomed to seeing Indians dressed that way. I mean, well, it doesn’t cover very much, and…never mind, Shadow Hawk. I have to go to work. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  He stared after her. She had explained to him about the books she wrote, but he saw no value in them. What was the point of writing something that was not true? He had stared at the covers that showed muscular Indian men holding scantily attired white women in their arms, and been confused. White women were afraid of Indians. The few he’d seen had looked at him in terror. He could not imagine any of them tearing off their clothes and willingly falling into his arms.

  That evening, he sat across the table from the Spirit Woman, hardly tasting the food on his plate as his gaze was drawn toward her time and again, mesmerized by the way the candlelight caressed her skin and danced in the thick blackness of her hair. He listened to the sound of her voice, liking the way she spoke his language, though it was often laced with words of the white man which he didn’t fully understand. She told him of Veronica’s family, and of how much Bobby wanted to be a warrior, a real warrior, like in the old days.

  “But, of course, that’s impossible,” Maggie said, her voice tinged with regret.

  “Why?”

  “Because the old days are gone. He wants to seek a vision and count coup on an enemy. He wants to ride to battle, like Crazy Horse.”

  “You know of Crazy Horse?”

  “Of course. Everyone does.”

  “How?”

  “It’s in the history books. Children learn of him in school.”

  “White children?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “What do they learn?”

  “That he was a great warrior. They learn about Sitting Bull, too, and Red Cloud.” Maggie paused as an idea came to her. “Maybe I could teach you to speak English while you’re here.”

  Shadow Hawk considered her suggestion. He could not go back to the cave until the next full moon. Perhaps it would be advisable for him to learn as much of the white man’s tongue as he could in the time he had left. A wise man studied the ways of his enemies.

  “Teach me,” Shadow Hawk said.

  Maggie put her writing on hold and spent the next week teaching Shadow Hawk to speak English. She had thought to spend an hour or so each morning at the task, but one hour stretched into two, and then three, and by the end of the week they had worked themselves up to almost eight hours each day.

  She was glad that Veronica was there to help her, because the sentence structure of English was vastly different from that of the Lakota. There seemed to be no linking verbs in Lakota. Where a white man would say “The grass is tall”, the Lakota said “peji hanska”, meaning “grass tall”. “The sun is hot” translated as Wi kata, “sun hot”. “The dog ate the chicken” became sunka he kokoyahanla tebye, or “dog that chicken ate”.

  By the end of the week, Maggie was amazed at how much Shadow Hawk had learned. She had only to tell him something once or twice and he knew it.

  Now, sitting across the kitchen table from Shadow Hawk, she found herself staring at him surreptitiously as she did so often. He still refused to wear anything but his clout and moccasins and her gaze was constantly drawn to his broad shoulders, to the vast expanse of his copper-hued chest.

  Even more compelling was the haunting magnetism of his deep black eyes and the sensual line of his mouth. She found herself longing to run her fingertips over his lower lip, to trace the faint white scars on his chest. Such a magnificent chest, she mused.

  With a shake of her head, she put such thoughts from her mind. It wasn’t like her to fantasize about such things. Even as a teenager she hadn’t been overly interested in boys or making out. A nice girl saved herself for marriage, her mother had always said, and Maggie had been a nice girl. No doubt she was the only thirty-two-year-old virgin in the United States.

  She looked up at the sound of Shadow Hawk’s voice. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

  “Are you tired?” Shadow Hawk repeated, wondering at her long silence.

  “No, I’m fine,” Maggie said, and then smiled as she realized he’d spoken to her in English.

  Shadow Hawk gazed at her thoughtfully for several moments. He’d been keenly aware of her covert stares during the past week. Did she find him desirable, or was she merely curious about a man who had traveled so far through the mists of time?

  Desire surged through him as his eyes met hers, and he wished he dared touch her. When he had thought her a spirit only, he had not given any thought to the beauty of her face, the color of her skin, the shape of her mouth. But now he knew she was flesh and it was all he could do to keep from reaching out to stroke her cheek, to bury his face in the wealth of her hair and breathe in the sweet scent of woman.

  Abruptly, he stood up. “We will start again tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  Still, he did not move. His gaze lingered on her face and he wondered again why she had summoned him to this place.

  Maggie felt her cheeks grow warm under his prolonged gaze. What was he thinking? Why was he looking at her like that?

  “Good night, Mag-gie,” he said quietly, and his voice washed over her like dark honey, warm and soft and sweet.

  “Good night,” she murmured, and wished she could think of some plausible reason to make him stay.

  Shadow Hawk left the kitchen, reluctant to leave her, yet knowing he needed to get away from her before it was too late, before he did something that would shame her and prove he was not the warrior he claimed to be.

  He walked down the narrow hall that led to the living room, pausing f
or a moment to look at the painting over the fireplace, and then he went outside.

  Standing on the porch, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, inhaling the fresh, clean scent of earth and grass, the fragrance of the tall pines, the faint odor of a skunk.

  He heard the quiet swoosh of an owl’s wings, the soft snort of one of the horses, the distant melancholy cry of a wolf. The sounds of home.

  Opening his eyes, he gazed at the Hills, feeling their nearness, their power.

  He thought of Heart-of-the-Wolf. He thought of his mother and prayed that she still lived, but always his thoughts returned to Maggie. It pained him that she could not walk, that he could not take her hand and run with her through the prairie grass. She was a woman of beauty and sensitivity. She should not be bound to a cold chair with wheels. She should not be living in a square house with only an old woman and a young boy for company. He had seen the sadness in her eyes and knew she longed for the things every woman longed for, a man to love her, a mate to give her children, a companion to walk beside her until life was done.

  Standing there, staring into the darkness, he wished that he could be that man.

  Returning to the house, he walked quietly down the hallway toward his room. He paused outside Maggie’s room, imagining her asleep inside, her hair spread like a dark cloud on the pillow.

  He was about to go on down the hall when he heard her crying softly. Impulsively, he opened the door and stepped into the room.

  “Mag-gie? Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Go away.”

  “Why do you weep?”

  Why, indeed, she thought bitterly. “Please, Hawk, just go away.”

  He listened to her words telling him to leave, but in his heart he knew she did not want to be alone. Crossing the room, he sat on the edge of the bed and drew her into his arms.

  “Let me go!” she shrieked, a sudden irrational fear rising up within her as his arms closed around her.

  “Mag-gie, do not be afraid. I will not harm you.”

  His voice, that beautiful deep voice, reached through the darkness, soothing her. She felt his hand stroke her hair and she laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes. It had been so long since anyone had held her. She could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, feel the heat of his body against hers.

  “Mag-gie, why do you weep?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “I just can’t. I hardly know you.”

  His hand continued to stroke her hair, comforting her. “You can tell me,” he urged softly.

  She shook her head, not wanting to put her fears into words. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t walk, it was all that it entailed. She missed horseback riding. She missed playing tennis, walking in the sunshine, swimming, shopping. And though she had vowed never to love again, she missed having a man to care for, a man who cared for her. But she couldn’t tell him that. To do so would be to bare her heart and soul.

  Shadow Hawk continued to hold her, waiting for her to speak, and then, without words, he knew why she wept, why she had called to him. She was lonely and afraid— afraid of growing old alone, afraid of having no one to love, no one to love her. In dreams and visions he had seen the tears in her eyes, heard the silent yearning of her heart.

  Gently he cupped her face in his hands and gazed down into her eyes. “Do not weep, Mag-gie. You are not alone anymore.”

  She stared up at him, her blue eyes luminous through her tears.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered.

  “There must be no lies between us,” he said, using his fingertips to wipe away her tears. “I cannot stay here forever, but while I am here, you will not be alone.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In the morning, she was embarrassed by the way she’d melted into his arms. She hardly knew the man, yet she had snuggled into his embrace, literally crying on his shoulder. She couldn’t believe she’d done such a thing, yet there was no point in dwelling on it. Resolutely, she managed to put the incident from her mind, determined to get back to her writing as soon as breakfast was over.

  Shadow Hawk was already at the kitchen table when she entered the room. One look at his face brought the events of the night before surging to the front of her mind, the memory of his arms around her almost tangible. Gazing into his expressive black eyes, she knew that he was remembering, too, that he was keenly aware of her inner turmoil, of the aching loneliness that haunted her late at night. Her only escape was her writing, where she could forget the hurt of Frank’s rejection, the feeling that life was passing her by.

  Being in a wheelchair set her apart from other people. The friends she’d had in Los Angeles hadn’t known what to expect or how to react when they came to visit after the accident. Some had stared not knowing what to say. Some had found it difficult to meet her eyes and looked at everything in the room except her. She could hardly blame them. Most of her acquaintances were people she did things with, ice skating, boating, skiing, tennis. When she could no longer participate in the sports that had bonded them together, she had realized they had nothing else in common and very little to say to each other. After Frank broke their engagement, she left LA leaving no forwarding address so that only her editor knew where to find her.

  After saying good morning to Veronica, Maggie concentrated on her breakfast, refusing to meet Shadow Hawk’s gaze. She didn’t want to see pity in his eyes, didn’t want him feeling sorry for her. She didn’t want to feel anything ever again.

  When breakfast was over, she went into the den and sat at her computer. She knew Shadow Hawk was waiting for her in the kitchen, that he expected her to continue helping him with his English, but she couldn’t face him, not after last night.

  She didn’t hear him enter the room, but she felt his presence, knew he was standing in the doorway staring at her back, but she pretended she didn’t know he was there and after a few moments, he walked away, his footsteps as silent as a cat’s.

  She wrote a few pages, decided they were junk, and erased them, only to sit staring at the blank blue screen. A noise from outside drew her attention and she went to the window. Peering through the curtains, she saw Shadow Hawk swing onto the black stallion that Bobby had been trying to break for the last three months. It was a beautiful animal, all black save for a narrow white blaze and one white stocking.

  No sooner had Shadow Hawk settled himself on the horse’s bare back than the animal lowered its head and began to buck wildly.

  Maggie gasped, wondering how Hawk managed to stay on the animal’s back. She had watched Bobby get thrown time and again, and Bobby rode with a saddle to hang on to. But Hawk stuck to the stallion’s back as if he were a part of the huge beast, and she thought she’d never seen anything more beautiful than Shadow Hawk as he rode the wildly pitching stallion, his waist-length black hair whipping about his face, his broad chest sheened with perspiration and dust, his powerful thighs gripping the animal’s sides.

  Abruptly, the stallion raised its head and reared up on its hind legs, its front feet flailing the air, its ears laid flat.

  With a wild cry, Shadow Hawk brought his fist down on the horse’s head, just behind its ears, and the horse’s front feet hit the ground and it began bucking again.

  I’ve got to paint this, Maggie thought, awed by the scene before her. Foamy white lather covered the stallion’s chest and flanks, its sides heaved with the strain of trying to dislodge the unwelcome burden from its back. And the man…she could not tear her gaze from the man. He rode with seeming ease, a smile on his face as he pitted his strength against that of the horse. It was magnificent. He was magnificent.

  She felt a sense of disappointment when the battle was over. The stallion gave one final buck and came to an abrupt halt, its body quivering with exhaustion, its nostrils flared, its ears twitching back and forth.

  Maggie watched as Shadow Hawk slid to the ground, then went to stand at the stallion’s head. Placing
his hands on either side of the horse’s head, Hawk blew gently into the stallion’s nostrils, letting their breaths mingle, and then he scratched the horse behind its ears, speaking to the animal all the while.

  She sat there as though mesmerized while Shadow Hawk walked the horse around the corral to cool it out, then spent twenty minutes brushing the horse until its coat gleamed like black silk.

  Not wanting to be caught staring, she turned away from the window when Shadow Hawk vaulted over the corral fence and started walking toward the house.

  She was sitting at her computer when she heard the water running in the shower. It was one of the white man’s inventions that he had readily taken to and she felt her cheeks flush as she imagined him standing there with the warm water rinsing away the dust and perspiration.

  She knew the minute he entered the room.

  “Will you teach me now?” he asked. “I still have much to learn.”

  What was there about the sound of his voice that made her feel warm and safe, that made her long for things which could never be?

  Slowly, she shook her head. She was becoming too fond of this man from the past, this man who was too young for her, who might disappear at any moment.

  “Mag-gie?”

  The sound of her name on his lips melted her resolve to avoid him. Moments later they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table with Maggie saying phrases in Lakota and Shadow Hawk repeating them in English.

  “Hau,” she said.

  “Hello,” he replied.

  “Toniktuka he?” she asked.

  “How are you?” he said, repeating the question in English.

  “Matanyan yelo.”

  “I am fine.”

  She was caught up in the sound of his voice, in the clear black depths of his eyes, in the decidedly male scent that filled her nostrils. Her gaze kept straying to his bare chest and she made a mental note to tell Veronica to find him something to wear. A shirt, an overcoat, anything, because it was impossible to concentrate on mundane things like nouns and verbs with that vast expanse of well-muscled copper-hued flesh staring her in the face morning, noon and night. It was a good thing he’d never gone into Sturgis with Bobby, she thought, because he would have caused accidents all over town as women drivers turned to watch him instead of the road.