Hawk stared at the yellow line that ran down the highway, trying to understand what Maggie had told him, trying to imagine his people defeated, living as the white man’s prisoners on reservations. It could not be true. His people were born to the wind and the mountains. The thought of them living on reservations, stripped of their pride, their land, their way of life, was too painful to contemplate.
Slowly, he shook his head. “No…”
“I’m sorry, Hawk, but I’m afraid it’s true. As near as I can tell, you came here from 1872, maybe 1873. In another four or five years, the life you knew will be gone.”
“Could nothing have been done to change the fate of my people?”
“I don’t think so. There were too many whites who wanted to move west, lured by tales of rich grassland and fertile soil. At first the Army tried to stop them, but then Custer found gold in the Black Hills, and people poured westward. Miners and merchants and homesteaders and there was just no way to stop them.”
“So there is no hope for my people.”
“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. A lot of white people are beginning to feel ashamed of the way the Indians are being treated. Some of them are beginning to realize that your people knew how to take care of the land, that maybe some of the Indian ways are better than ours.”
Hawk’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. Was this why he had been sent here? To learn the ultimate fate of his people? Should he go back and warn them not to fight, tell them it was useless, that there was no way to win? Or should he urge them into battle, for he knew now that it was better to die as a warrior than be penned on the white man’s reservation, forced to live on his charity, never to be free again. Or should he live out his life here with Maggie? There seemed to be no point in returning to his own time. He could do nothing for his people. Nothing but warn them of what was to come.
“Hawk…”
He glanced at Maggie as she laid her hand on his knee, his gaze moving briefly over her profile before he turned his attention back to the road.
“Hawk, I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”
He nodded. Then feeling the need to touch her he placed his hand over hers. They rode in silence until they reached the town.
Sturgis had originally been an annex to Fort Meade, one of the Army posts established to guard the Black Hills from Indian attacks on white settlers and miners. The Seventh Cavalry, re-formed after the Custer massacre, was the fort’s first permanent garrison. A horse named Comanche was the only living thing found on the battlefield at the Little Big Horn. It had been officially retired with military honors at Fort Meade. In 1944 the old post had been turned into a Veteran’s Administration Hospital.
According to a brochure Maggie had read, Sturgis was “a pretty and prosperous town lying in the red valley on the eastern border of the Hills, almost in the shadow of Bear Butte”. It was here, at Fort Meade, that “The Star-Spangled Banner” had been played for the first time.
Maggie groaned when they reached the outskirts of town. She had expected to find the quiet little town she’d seen the few times she’d come to Sturgis. What she had forgotten was that during one week every August Sturgis welcomed over eighty thousand bikers and spectators to the Black Hills Motor Classic and Rally, a weeklong internationally famous motorcycle racing extravaganza.
And this was the week. Last year had been the fiftieth anniversary of the race and Veronica had told her that over two hundred thousand people had turned out to celebrate.
Thankfully, it wasn’t as bad this year, but there seemed to be people everywhere. Men and women old enough to be grandparents rode down the main street on Gold Wing motorcycles; long-haired hippie types clad in black leather lounged near the curb; a couple with blue hair were draped across a big Harley; a man in a pinstriped business suit was riding a big red, white and blue Suzuki. She guessed the people dressed in plaid shirts and blue jeans probably lived in town all year long.
Hawk stared at the crowd, the fate of the Lakota temporarily forgotten. He had seen few whites in his day, but never any who looked like these. There were young girls in short skirts, in bathing suits, in halter tops and skintight pants. Some wore high heels, some were barefoot. He saw men in colorful shirts and pants, shirtless men in shorts, men in suits and ties, men in tight-fitting jeans and black leather jackets.
He looked over at Maggie and lifted one black brow. “I do not think anyone would have noticed what I wore.”
“I guess you’re right. This place is a madhouse. I don’t know how we’ll ever find a place to park.”
Hawk drove around for a while, curious to see what the town looked like. Maggie looked out the window, unable to believe the crowds of people waiting at the McDonald’s and the Pizza Hut. They passed a Super-Duper Market, and a Piggly Wiggly. Shades of Driving Miss Daisy, Maggie thought with a grin. Most of the houses they passed were older wood-framed buildings, although there were some newer, larger homes on the outskirts of town.
Driving down Junction Avenue, she saw the house where “Poker Alice” Tubbs, the Queen of Women Gamblers of the Old West, had lived.
Alice had been born in England, but she attended an exclusive girls’ school in the United States. Later she married a mining engineer named Duffield and they moved to Colorado where her husband and his friends taught her to play poker. It seemed Alice was a natural and when her husband was killed in an explosion Alice turned to gambling to earn a living, following the gold trail from Leadville to Deadwood. When the rush in Deadwood began to fade, Alice moved to Sturgis where she raised three boys and girls.
The woman had lived an exciting life, Maggie thought, and made a mental note to visit her house some day. Perhaps she’d use Poker Alice in one of her books.
As Hawk drove on, Maggie saw Mom’s Cafe where she’d once eaten lunch, and the Philtown Motel, and later, a modern-looking apartment building for senior citizens.
Hawk drove down Lazelle Street until he came to Lynn’s Country Market and Maggie told him they’d shop there. After circling the block three times, he found a place to park. Maggie held her breath as he maneuvered the truck between a Toyota and a Dodge van. Hawk grinned at Maggie, then hopped out of the cab to get Maggie’s wheelchair out of the back of the truck.
The wheelchair turned out to be a blessing in disguise, Maggie thought, as people parted before her like the waters of the Red Sea.
Inside the store, they moved up and down the aisles. For Hawk, it was an education, though he felt foolish pushing the metal shopping cart.
Maggie grinned at him. “I guess you have something in common with white men whether you like it or not,” she remarked, “because most of them don’t like to shop, either.”
Hawk studied the cans he took off the shelves, looking at the pictures, frowning at the odd squiggles of the white man’s writing. He thought perhaps he’d ask Maggie to teach him to read and write. It might be a wise thing for his people to learn.
At the meat counter he stared at the neatly wrapped packages trying to imagine how many such packages it would take to hold a buffalo, and thinking how easy it was for white women. The Lakota had to hunt the buffalo, kill it, skin it, cut up the meat and haul it back to camp. White women had only to go to the store and the meat was laid out for them so that all they had to do was take it home and cook it. His mother would like that, he thought.
His mother…he gazed out the window wondering if she was well. No doubt she thought him dead, killed in the battle along with Heart-of-the-Wolf. He wondered if she had gone to live with her cousin and his wife, if they were taking good care of her, if she had enough to eat…
He gazed at the mountains of canned goods and felt a wave of bitterness wash over him as he thought of the long winters when Lakota babies cried for food, when old ones refused to eat so that the young ones wouldn’t starve. But the whites had enough to eat and more.
“Hawk?”
He glanced down at Maggie, saw that she was staring at him
, her brow lined with concern.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes. I was just thinking of my mother.”
“I guess she misses you.”
He nodded. “As I miss her.”
Maggie nodded, her own bright mood suddenly overshadowed by the thought that he would be leaving soon. She had managed to tuck that thought into the back of her mind, refusing to dwell on it, determined to live each day as it came.
In addition to canned goods and meat, they bought fresh fruit and vegetables, milk and ice cream, toilet paper—another miracle, Hawk thought with a wry grin. They bought sweet-smelling soap and toothpaste and finally, their shopping cart full, they made their way to the checkout counter. Hawk stared at the cash register, amazed once again by the white man’s cleverness.
With their groceries paid for, they left the store and made their way down the crowded sidewalk. Maggie caught bits of conversation as she and Hawk made their way down the street, snide comments about tame Indians and white squaws. It was hard to believe, she thought with a rueful shake of her head. Hard to believe there was still so much prejudice between the whites and the Indians.
Maggie slid a glance at Hawk and saw that he, too, was aware of the rude comments. His expression was harsh, a muscle worked in his jaw. She saw his hands tighten around the handle of the shopping cart as a leather-clad biker with shoulder-length blond hair pointed a gloved finger in their direction.
“Damn redskins,” the biker said with a sneer. “Why don’t they stay on the reservation where they belong?”
Hawk was going to fight. She saw it in the way his body tensed, in the way his knuckles turned white around the handle of the shopping cart.
She reached up to grab his arm. It was rock-hard, the muscle quivering with tension. “Hawk, don’t. Please.”
He looked down at her, his dark eyes filled with fury.
“Please,” she said again. “It won’t solve anything.”
She was relieved when they reached the truck. Effortlessly, Hawk lifted her from her chair and put her in the truck, then loaded the groceries and the wheelchair into the back and climbed into the cab.
Maggie let out a sigh of relief, glad to be leaving, hoping that Veronica would be able to come back to work soon so that they wouldn’t have to make another trip to town. She’d forgotten how she hated being stared at.
As they left town, she was glad to put it all behind her.
Chapter Twenty
When they reached the ranch, Hawk helped Maggie put the groceries away, his mind reeling with what she’d told him about the fate of the Lakota, with the wonders he’d seen in the market, with the taunting words of the black-clad wasichu.
He wanted to scream that it was unfair to jail his people on reservations simply because they were different, because they did not invent things that were amazing but of no real value. He wanted to yell at Maggie and tell her his people deserved to live free, as they had always lived free, that they didn’t need cars or computers or grocery stores. But the fate of his people didn’t rest in her hands, and yelling at her wouldn’t solve anything. He wished there was a way he could change the future, a way that his people could learn to live with the whites without giving up their ancient laws and traditions and customs.
He wished he’d had a knife so he could have taught the loudmouthed wasichu to have a little respect for a warrior.
He stared at the four walls of Maggie’s kitchen and felt them closing in on him, smothering him.
Abruptly, he opened the back door and almost ran out of the house.
Standing in the yard facing the Paha Sapa he took several deep breaths, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought down the anger and the sense of helplessness churning within him.
He wanted to go home, to see his people, to live as he had always lived.
He wanted to stay here with Maggie, to take her in his arms and make her his woman. Forever.
He knew suddenly that she was there, behind him. He inhaled a long slow breath, let it out in a long sigh before turning to face her.
“I’m sorry, Hawk.”
“For what? You have done nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m sorry you’re unhappy, sorry I can’t help you get back to your people, but I don’t want you to go.”
A hint of a smile softened his features. “I do not want to go.”
“But you’re going.”
“Yes, when the time is right.”
She bit down on her lower lip, refusing to cry. One day at a time, she thought. “Would you like to go on a picnic?”
“Pic-nic?”
“I packed a lunch and I thought we’d go up into the Hills and eat it. That’s what a picnic is, eating in a pretty place away from home.” With someone you love.
“If you wish. Will we walk or take the black?”
“Let’s ride,” Maggie said, smiling as she thought of sitting in front of him on the stallion, his arm around her waist, her head resting against his chest.
Ten minutes later they were riding toward the foothills. They couldn’t have picked a better day, Maggie thought. The sky was clear and blue, the weather was warm but not too hot, the pines were whispering to each other, telling secrets only they knew.
With a sigh of contentment, Maggie closed her eyes and pretended it would last forever.
They stopped in a small grassy meadow surrounded by aspen and spruce. A narrow stream glistened in the sunlight. Birds called to each other in the treetops, a gray squirrel watched them with dark curious eyes.
Maggie sat on the stallion while Hawk spread a blanket on the grass, her gaze lingering on the muscles that bunched and relaxed beneath the black T-shirt.
With the blanket spread beneath a tree, he took the picnic basket from her hands and placed it on the ground, then returned for her.
He stood beside the horse for a long moment, his hands spanning Maggie’s waist, his dark eyes gazing into hers as if he thought to find answers to the questions that plagued him hidden in the depths of her eyes.
He was close, so close. They hadn’t touched for days, and Maggie felt the breath catch in her throat as she gazed into his eyes. She knew that nothing had changed, that he would still leave her when he could, but she wished, oh how she wished that he would make love to her just once before he returned to his own time, his own people.
She rested her hands on his shoulders, felt him shudder at her touch. With pleasure, she wondered, or regret. He was so beautiful. Soon, he would return to his people and some woman would win his heart and he’d forget all about the crippled white woman and the weeks they had shared. She looked at the meadow, at the narrow stream and the bright blue sky and wondered if Eden could have been more perfect. She wanted to be Eve, just for today, and prayed that she could tempt Adam into her arms.
Hawk’s hands closed around her waist as he lifted her from the back of the stallion and she smiled into his eyes, hoping he would read the longing there, that he would make her his woman, just for today.
Hawk held Maggie close for several moments, their bodies pressed tightly together. He read the longing in her eyes, saw the rapid beat of the pulse in her throat, felt his own body responding to her nearness, to the heat of her, the scent of her and felt all his defenses crumbling. He wanted her, as she wanted him. Was he being foolish to deny himself the pleasure of her love?
And yet, how would he ever leave her once he had made her his?
“Ah, Mag-gie,” he murmured, and then, reluctantly, he placed her on the blanket and sat down beside her. He took a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh, and then smiled at her. “What did you bring for lunch?”
“All your favorites. Roast beef sandwiches with Swiss cheese and tomato and lots of onions. Potato salad. Pickles. And chocolate cake for dessert.”
Hawk grinned at her as she began to rummage around in the picnic basket, spreading a tablecloth over the blanket, handing out paper plates and napkins, cans of soda, which he had lea
rned to love, sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil.
He ate with more determination than appetite, ever aware of the woman beside him. The scent of her perfume, of woman, was carried to him on the breeze, making it difficult to think of anything else. He reached for a napkin just as she did and the brief touch of her fingertips sent a frisson of heat racing up his arm, igniting his senses.
He raised his gaze to her face. Her eyes were bluer than the sky, deeper than the Missouri. Her lips, slightly parted, were full and pink, inviting his touch, his kiss…
He could no more deny himself the taste of her lips than he could cause the sun to stop shining. Slowly, he leaned toward her, one hand sliding under her hair to curl around her neck as his mouth closed over hers. She tasted of mustard and mayonnaise and he thought he’d never tasted anything sweeter or more seductive.
He watched her eyelids flutter down, heard her faint sigh of pleasure, felt the quickening of her breathing as his kiss deepened. He whispered her name, never taking his lips from hers, felt his blood begin to burn as she murmured, “Yes, oh yes,” into his mouth.
With a low groan, he drew her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her, enveloping her in his embrace. He forgot the past, forgot the future. There was only this moment, and the woman in his arms.
Maggie’s heart felt as if it would burst, she was so filled with happiness and anticipation. At last, she thought, her senses reeling with the wonder of it, at last he was going to make love to her. From this day forward, she would be his woman…
He was bending her back, laying her on the blanket. She opened her eyes and saw only him. His eyes were dark with passion and then, abruptly, his expression changed from desire to alarm.
“Hawk, what is it?” she asked, but he paid her no mind. Rolling to his feet, he stared into the distance. And then she heard it, too, the roar of a motorcycle coming their way.
There were two of them. Big black Harleys ridden by men wearing faded Levi’s, black leather jackets, and shiny black helmets.
The Spirit Path Page 13
