“Then we’re all just going to stand by and watch this big city dude waltz in and take her?”
Keso had never felt so helplessly frustrated. He slumped down on a bale of hay, surveying his bruised fists. “If I could fight him for her, I would, but that won’t win her. She’s dazzled by fine clothes and fancy manners. A backwoods hick—no, worse yet, a savage—that’s how she looks at me.”
Cherokee sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to tell you, boy.”
He stood up. “I know you mean well, Cherokee, but there’s nothing anyone can do. But I don’t have to hang around and watch her marry that prissy bastard.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I—I don’t know.” Keso scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt. “I’m thinking of going back to the Cheyenne.”
Cherokee made a sound of dismay. “Why don’t you just stay here, boy? You’re like a son to us.”
Keso shook his head. “Every inch of this place speaks of her—the old tree where her swing hung, that wide place in the brook where I used to make her little leaf boats. Maybe I could find peace among my own people again.”
“Keso, there’s only a handful of Cheyenne still running free up in the north country now after that tragedy last year. Besides, you haven’t lived that life since you were a small boy—you’re used to living like awhite man.”
“But I’m not a white man,” Keso said and his soul was as bitter as his voice. “If I was a white man with a good pedigree and all the social graces, Wannie would want me.”
“She’s naive and unsophisticated,” Cherokee argued, “and maybe a little vain. Once she sees young Brewster in her own environment, he may not look so special to her.”
“And I’m supposed to just sit here and watch this snooty gent invade my territory, watch him kiss her and touch her?” He shook his head. “It was a struggle to keep from knocking him down every time he got close to her. No, Cherokee, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but if I can’t have her, I’m not going to watch Cleve marry her. I’ll return to the Cheyenne instead.”
“Keso, you aren’t serious about that.” He patted the horse’s head, avoiding Keso’s gaze.
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“Have you ever thought about why you were on the streets of Denver?”
Keso shrugged. “I don’t remember much except that there was some kind of trouble. My Cheyenne mother and I left the tribe. She began to drink. She died and I ended up roaming the streets just trying to survive.”
“Keso, you can’t go back to the Cheyenne. You wouldn’t fit in.”
“I could try.” He could see by the expression on the older man’s weathered face that he was struggling for the right words.
“Keso, there’s something I suppose I should have told you a long time ago ...” His voice trailed off.
“Yes?”
“Just forget it,” Cherokee said, avoiding his eyes. “You wouldn’t want to know.”
“I couldn’t feel any worse than I do now,” Keso snapped. “Tell me.”
“You’ve been raised as my son. Would it matter so much if you weren’t really Cheyenne?”
“Hell, yes! What are you talking about? Of course I’m Cheyenne. I figure maybe my father was a dog soldier, the best of the best. Maybe he was killed, so my mother left the tribe.”
Cherokee didn’t say anything. Outside the barn, a bird called in the hot afternoon.
Keso strode over and caught the older man by the shoulder. “You’re trying to tell me something. What is it?”
“No, I’m not.” Cherokee looked away. “The ladies will be looking for us.”
“Cherokee, if you don’t tell me what you’re hiding, I swear I’ll—”
“Are you going to hit me, son?” His voice was as soft as his expression.
At that moment, it was all Keso could do to keep from bursting into sobs. Whatever it was in Cherokee’s eyes, it was something almost as terrible as losing his beloved Wannie. No, nothing was as bad as that. “You know I’m not. I’d die for any of the three of you.” He turned away so Cherokee wouldn’t see his face, then paced up and down the barn. “Tell me, Cherokee, I’d rather know.”
“Maybe we should have told you before—we’ve known almost from the first. My friend, Iron Knife, told me.”
“Iron Knife? The Cheyenne dog soldier?”
Cherokee nodded. “Keso, who your blood parents are doesn’t really matter—”
“All the Brewsters talked about was bloodlines and who their ancestors were. It must matter a helluva lot!”
“All right, then. You—you were kidnapped by the Cheyenne when you were a very young child with the thought of holding you for ransom. Something went wrong, I reckon, and the Cheyenne girl who looked after you insisted on keeping you for her own, so they ran her out of the tribe.”
The words didn’t seem to make any sense. “I don’t understand—”
“None of this matters,” Cherokee said, “as far as Silver and I are concerned, you’re Keso Evans, our son.”
He looked Cherokee straight in the eye. “Tell me the rest, Cherokee. I can take it.”
“All right.” He sighed, hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I only know you’re Ute—Iron Knife said so.”
Ute. The hated enemies of his people. No, they weren’t his people after all. In his eyes, the Utes were an inferior tribe—the Cheyenne said so.
For a long moment, the only sound was the breeze making the barn creak and the sound of horses munching contentedly.
“Keso?” Cherokee said, his voice anxious, “are you all right?”
He swayed, feeling as if he’d just been shot in the gut with a ‘big fifty,’ buffalo gun. “Does Wannie know this?”
“I don’t think so. What would it matter to her?”
No woman would choose a Ute-they were white man’s Indians who hung around trading posts. He had always taken a lot of pride in his heritage. In his daydreams, his father was the best of the best: a Cheyenne dog soldier, fierce and proud.
“I’m sorry I told you, Keso,” Cherokee said and patted his shoulder, but Keso brushed his hand away, his inner pain so intense it almost blinded him. He’d lost his woman and his heritage.
“Ute? I’m really a Ute?”
“Now you see why you can’t return to the Cheyenne. They’d kill you for the same reason they ran you and your adopted mother out of the tribe.”
“I keep thinking this is a nightmare and I’m about to wake up,” Keso said.
“Keso, you’re the same man you’ve always been, what you’ve made of yourself. Who cares who sired you?”
“Utes!” he sneered. “The Cheyenne think they’re cowards.”
“Believe me, they’re honorable and brave—I’ve met some of them. None of this should make any difference!”
It would make a difference to Wannie, he thought, so it made a difference to him. Without answering, he turned and strode blindly out of the barn, his throat and eyes burning with unshed tears. He had lost the woman he wanted and now he had lost his history. Worse yet, he was a child of a hated enemy tribe. It was more than he could bear. Keso turned and ran into the woods.
Wannie looked toward the barn. “What could be keeping that pair?”
“I don’t know—why don’t you go see? I’ll start dinner.”
Wannie went out the door and to the barn. Inside, she heard voices raised in anguish and fury. What on earth—?
She caught just a few anguished words, something about Keso not being Cheyenne, but Ute.
What? That couldn’t be, yet Cherokee had no reason to lie. Poor Keso, Wannie thought—he’d always been so proud of his Cheyenne heritage.
Just then, he burst past her out the barn door, running toward the woods as if he didn’t even see her.
“Keso!” she called, but he kept running, not even looking back.
Cherokee walked out of the barn. “Wannie? How long have you been standing there?”
&nbs
p; “Just a minute.” She turned and stared after the lithe figure disappearing over the rise into the woods. “I caught just a few words about his not being Cheyenne. That isn’t true, is it?”
Cherokee nodded. “Afraid so. That’s all you heard?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Uh—no reason.”
She wondered what he was getting at. “Do you suppose he’ll be all right? He didn’t even see me, he was so upset.”
“He’s upset about a lot of things. I don’t know where he’ll run to.”
“I know,” Wannie said confidently. “There’s a special place—only the two of us know about it. I’ll go see about him.”
Cherokee grabbed her arm as if to stop her, then seemed to reconsider. “Okay, go on. You’re the only one who might be able to comfort him.”
She lifted her blue calico skirts and took off running without looking back. There was a private place up in the cliffs with a wonderful view of the valley and snow-capped peaks where a breeze sang through the tall trees. Waanibe’s place, the Valley of the Singing Winds, Keso called it. When she was little, she had told him solemnly that when she grew up, she would marry him and they would build a cabin on the site. It was always a peaceful refuge for both of them.
Keso ran blindly through the woods, not knowing and not caring where he was going. He had thought nothing could be worse than losing Wannie to another man. He’d almost been right. The second worst thing was being told he was a child of an enemy tribe he had always thought of as inferior slaves to the white men.
Maybe he could leave all this pain behind him. He ran a long time, not even looking where he was going. Finally, he slowed, panting, and looked around—then smiled without mirth. His legs had carried him to Waanibe’s secret place. This was her favorite hiding spot as a child. He would come up here to sit with her and spin grandiose dreams of the future. There was a level area near the cliff among towering pines and spruce. In the autumn, golden aspen turned the mountain bright as any treasure. Constant breezes whispered and sang through the branches. It was the perfect place for a home, the home he had dreamed of building for Wannie.
Dreams—what a waste of time. He flopped down under a tall tree, staring out at the beautiful view and remembering. Now that home would never be built nor would she ever wear his ring. He took it from his vest and stared at it. He wanted to fling it over the cliff. He hesitated, then couldn’t throw his dream away. Reluctantly, he put the ring back in his pocket, thinking what a laugh his fantasies had been.
All those daydreams of enduring the Sun Dance ceremony, painting his face, and riding wild and free with the Cheyenne dog soldiers faded into oblivion. Now he knew why he had been thrown out to survive on the mean streets of frontier Denver. He was truly as worthless as Cleve and the arrogant Brewsters had made him feel. All he knew of the docile Utes was what his Cheyenne mother had drummed into him before she died.
He leaned against the tree trunk, relishing the feel of its rough bark against his back. He heard the chattering of squirrels overhead, the wind rustling through the leaves like Wannie’s high, sweet voice. It brought him peace now as he sat thinking and stared at the sun in the clear blue sky.
Twice in the last few weeks, he’d confessed his love and Wannie had brushed his words aside. It crossed his mind now that the only way he would ever possess Wannie was to kidnap her and carry her off.
Cheyenne dog soldiers. He smiled at the thought, imagining himself riding half-naked and in war paint on a galloping, spirited stallion. He would have sun dance scars on his chest and lead a war party of fierce braves. He imagined Cleve arriving on the train and Wannie meeting him at the Denver station with the buggy. On the way to the Evanses’ cabin, Keso and his war party would come charging out of the woods and surround them.
Keso’s fine black stallion reared before the startled old horse and the buggy stopped.
Fear shone in Wannie’s dark eyes. She had never looked so vulnerable as she did at that moment in her favorite blue calico dress with ribbons in her hair.
Sweat broke out on Cleve’s pale face. Even with his golden hair and cleft chin, he wasn’t so handsome now. “What—what is it you want? I-I have money—”
“I don’t want money,” Keso glared back, “I come for the woman.”
“Keso?” Wannie seemed to recognize him for the first time. “Is that you?”
“I am Fox, leader of the dog soldiers, ” he said coldly. “I raid the settlements to add scalps to my lodge pole and marks to my coup stick. All I need now is a woman to warm my blankets and give me sons!” He swung down off the horse.
Cleve looked so scared, he was shaking. “Take her then and let me go.”
“You’re not a man fit to breed a woman!” Keso sneered as he strode to Cleve’s side of the buggy. “A man should be willing to die to protect his woman!”
With that challenge, he reached out and jerked Cleve off the buggy seat.
Fear seemed to make Cleve strike out, but Keso blocked his weak blow. Keso put all his fury into his punch and caught the young dandy in the chin, knocking him backward. Cleve came up fighting in sheer panic, begging for his life. Wannie screamed in the background as Keso grabbed Cleve, slammed him up against the red buggy wheel, hitting him again and again.
The superior sneer melted from the pale white face as Cleve slid down the wheel and groveled on the ground. “Take her! She means nothing to me—take her! Just don’t hurt me!”
With that, Keso stepped over the quivering, begging coward and strode around to Wannie’s side of the buggy. “You heard your man—he gives you to me.”
Wannie looked at him with disbelief, the old fire returning to her dark eyes. “But I always thought of you as my brother—”
“After tonight, you will think of me as your lover.” He reached up and swung her down from the buggy, cradling her slender body easily in his strong arms.
“You can’t do this, ” she protested.
“Hush! No woman tells the warrior Fox what he may or may not do. In this wild country, I command!” He carried her toward his stallion.
She struggled in his arms, craning her neck to look back at the sobbing man crawling in the dirt. “Cleve, do you see what he’s doing? Cleve, stop him!”
Keso whirled, Wannie still in his arms. “White man!” he challenged, “are you willing to trade your life for hers? If so, stand up!”
Instead, Cleve groveled in the dust, his stylish clothes torn and soiled. “No, don’t hurt me anymore! You want her, take her. Just let me go!”
Keso shrugged and swung up on the spirited black horse with Wannie. “You see, woman, his own life means more to him than you do.”
She blushed scarlet. “I—I had no idea he was such a coward or that you cared for me.”
Keso grunted as he cradled her close and urged his stallion into a lope. “You look but you do not see. He doesn’t deserve a beauty like you. You were meant to be a warrior’s prize!”
“How could I have been such a blind fool?” Wannie wept, soft and warm against his naked chest as they rode away.
Keso threw back his head and laughed with triumph. “Now you see what you should have known—he’s not worth your love.”
“Oh, Keso, you’re right. ” She clung to him, kissed his bare chest as they rode and the warm moisture of her lips on his skin sent chills up his back in anticipation.
“You’re mine, Wannie—my captive. I’ve always loved you and tonight, I’ll make you truly mine.”
It was late by the time they rode back to the Cheyenne village, cooking fires blazing in the darkness and dogs barking. Women ran to meet the victors, trilling the high sweet victory songs. Old warriors lined up as he rode in front of his men, nodding their heads with respect and approval.
Keso dismounted in front of his tipi, then threw his reins to a boy. He reached up and Wannie slid down into his arms. Her long black hair had come loose and fell in a tumble over her bare shoulders as he swung her small body up in his powe
rful arms and carried her inside to lay her gently on a buffalo robe.
“Keso, what do you intend to do with me?” Her calico dress had fallen from one shoulder and he could see the dusky smoothness of her skin and the swell of her breasts.
“I’m finally going to show you how much I love you, ” he whispered.
“Suppose I say no?” She looked up at him, her full, ripe lips slightly parted.
He fell to his knees and took her shoulders in his big hands. “Let me kiss you and see what you say.”
She bent her head so he could kiss her forehead as he had always done, or maybe the tip of her nose. Instead, he took her in his arms, tilted her face up with his hand and kissed her lips, slipping his tongue deep to caress the velvet of her mouth. She gasped and then reached her arms around his neck, urging him to kiss her even deeper.
He had never in all these years kissed her like that and it was more wonderful than he could have imagined. Her mouth tasted like hot, sweet silk and he explored there, his pulse pounding like the war drums outside in the darkness. Her dress had fallen down so that her full, warm breasts were pressed hard against his bare chest. Even as he kissed her, he brought one big hand up to cover a breast and ran his thumb across her nipple.
She moaned deep in her throat and pressed against him, covering his hand with her own, urging him to caress her breast. “How could I have been so stupid?” she whispered, “I was meant to be your woman, to let you love me and give me sons—your sons.”
She was so small. He wrapped one arm around her and lifted her so he could taste her breast, kiss around the pink circle of her nipple while she writhed and moaned. His manhood felt so hard, it was throbbing.
“I’ve waited a long time for this, Wannie, ” he whispered, “I’m going to make it last all night as I take your virginity.” His hand slid up under her long skirt to grasp her bare thighs. “Tonight, after a million dreams of it, I’m going to make you mine completely.”
“Then do it, ” she urged him, “I can think of nothing to make a woman more proud than giving her virginity to a fierce Cheyenne dog soldier.”
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