by Karen Kay
“Gen-ee,” the phantom said.
She groaned, almost losing her footing. And she didn’t know which she felt more, relief or anger.
The apparition kept talking. He said, “I have come for you, Gen-ee. You are my wife. You should be with me. My mother has told me why you left, and I think you should know that I do not intend, and have never intended, to leave you.”
She threw back her head. And though there were many things she wished to say, all she was able to utter was, “You have just now scared me.”
“I am sorry.” He took a step forward.
She backed away. “All right, I—”
“Gen-ee, you are my wife. I would not leave you. I…care for you.”
Was that all? She said, “Care? Nothing more?”
“Isn’t it enough? It means much to me.”
“Does it? Why don’t I quite believe that?”
He grinned. “I will gladly try to convince you if you will only come closer.”
“No,” she said. “I…of course, I know you can convince me, make me respond to you physically, but I—”
He suddenly swept forward and, not hesitating a moment, took her into his arms. “But what?”
She tried to take his arms from around her, to back away, but he was too strong, and the pony prevented any movement she would have made.
“Gen-ee,” was all Gray Hawk said as his head descended toward hers.
And without warning, the essence of him, that quality that made Gray Hawk who he was, engulfed her. She felt warm all over; she felt loved, wanted. And she could sense herself weakening.
She inhaled, and the scent of buckskin and leather, horseflesh and male essence assailed her. She reached out to touch him, and the warm resistance of his skin fascinated her. She spread out her hands.
The prairie winds caressed them, and the stars, the sky, even the earth beneath their feet, seemed somehow closer, a part of it all.
It was an intoxicating blend and…hard to resist. Still… She turned her head away.
“It is not true,” he said, and she could feel the seductive movement of his lips against her cheek, though she tried not to think of it. “I do not know what you heard there in camp, but whatever it was, it is not right. I do not intend to leave you. From the moment I stole you away from the medicine canoe, it has not been so.”
“You want your freedom from me, though.”
“No,” he said. “I want my freedom, but not from you. So that is what you heard, is it?”
She didn’t say anything, but her body must have grown stiff in his embrace.
He said, his lips finding and nibbling on her earlobe, “I worry about you, Gen-ee. I know you have problems in your home; I know you need to see your father, and I realize he has reason to speak with me. But I have not been able to give these things to you, and I have worried. When you heard me say I wanted my freedom, I talked about being free of this worry, not from you.”
She could feel his grin against her cheek. “I do not wish to worry about you for the rest of my life,” he continued. “I would have you settle your problems, my wife, so that we can begin our life together. It was this that I meant.”
She turned her head back toward him. “But I heard you say ‘Nitaakahkayi’ to your friend,” she argued. “And that means I am going home, not we. And then when you did say we were going home, you said ‘Nitaakitapoohpinnaan ahkayi’. But that’s the exclusive use of we, meaning you weren’t talking me with you.”
Gray Hawk smiled. “You have learned my language well, my wife,” he said. “But you forget that ‘Nitaakitapoohpinnaan ahkayi’ excludes only the person you are talking to. When I said that, it meant that my friend would not be coming home with me, naturally, since he would not be there. I did not mean you.”
Genevieve gazed up at him. She said. “Is that what that means?”
He nodded.
Her lips mouthed the word “oh.” She paused, regaining her voice, before she said, “Do not mind, then.”
He laughed softly. “But I have something to ask you,” he said, his lips a mere hairsbreadth above hers. “Why did you not come and ask me about this? Why did you leave, taking my best pony, to make this trip to the white man’s post alone? You have worried me even further.”
“Gray Hawk, I—”
“Were you lying to my mother, saying you were doing this only for me? I know that your father is not at that post. Were you doing this to escape me?”
“I…” What could she say? That she would not consider leaving him again? That she loved Gray Hawk more than anything else in her life? That the thought of not seeing him again made her feel slightly ill?
No, she didn’t think she could say any of those things. Not when he only “cared” about her.
She tried to back up, away from him, but his arms held her tightly to him, and she could do no more than stare at the buckskin shirt at his shoulder.
She took a deep breath. She said, “It is hard to explain what I mean to do.”
“I am listening. And as you can see, I have all night.”
She sighed. “I am not sure that I want to—”
“We will not leave here until you tell me what you are meaning to do.”
“But I—”
“I give you my word on that. We will stay here forever if we have to.”
She turned her face slightly in toward him, to give him a “look,” but her efforts were wasted. He didn’t see, or at least he pretended not to see. Finally, she said, “There is a way my people have of communicating with each other without having to be there. It is called ‘writing.’”
“I have seen this,” he said. “But it still does not explain—”
“What I meant to do is to write my father a letter once I get to the fort. I have decided to write down, in the letter, all my observations about your people, their language and their customs, and then send it to him. If I could do this, then I will rest easier, knowing my father can finish his book.”
She paused, and Gray Hawk said nothing for a long while, not even acknowledging that he had heard her. She felt him breathe deeply once, then again. At last he asked, “Why would you want to do this instead of go back to your home? I know now that you are aware of my intentions to take you to this St. Louis. Do you not wish to see your father?”
“I…” She sighed and rested her forehead on Gray Hawk’s shoulder. She said, “Yes, I would love to see my father, but…I am uncertain I wish to… Well, I…may not want to leave just yet. I—”
“And what makes you uncertain of this, my Gen-ee?” His question was just barely whispered. His arms tightened around her.
“Gray Hawk, I…”
“Yes?” He placed a finger under her chin, bringing her face around toward his. “What makes you want to stay with my people for a little longer?”
He stared down into her eyes, his look soft, his gaze inquiring, and suddenly, it was there for her to see: love, his love for her. She could perceive it, read it there on his face, so much so that she felt as though, if she were to reach out, she could touch it.
She shook herself. Back in the Indian camp, he had at times pretended to be the devoted husband, only then to ignore her, to walk away, to leave her alone while he went out on a hunt. How could she be certain if he—
“I love you, Gen-ee,” he said as though reading her thoughts. “Until you left tonight, I am not certain that I really knew this. But tonight I have come to realize that I do not wish to live my life without you. Tell me, Gen-ee, is it this that you feel for me?”
She shut her eyes, and very slowly, very slightly, she nodded. It was the first time, outside of a passionate moment, that she had admitted her love to him, and she wasn’t certain what to expect.
“I feel it, too, Gen-ee,” he said. “If I have been slow to see it for what it is, please believe that it has not been an easy thing for me to accept. I have loved my independent life well, but the thought now of living my life without you has little appeal. I want you with me a
lways.”
“Always?”
“Yes, little Gen-ee, always.”
She breathed in all at once and shut her eyes, committing to memory this moment: the caress of the wind, the position of the moon and stars, the scent of his skin, the feel of his hair, his arms as he held her.
And her doubts fled, just like that, disappearing into the night as though they were mere shadows.
She stared up at him, his handsome face outlined in the dim, soft light of the moon. She’d known it for quite some time now, that she loved him, but somehow, right here, right now, there was more. She loved this man—totally, completely, without pause.
And suddenly she couldn’t get enough of him. She ran her lips over his neck, tasting his clean-scented skin; she pressed her ear to his chest, listening to the sound of his breathing; she placed her hand over his arm, feeling the movement of his muscles.
She wanted him, whatever it was that made him who he was, good or bad, if only because it all was a part of him.
And the weight of her love, the power of it, almost overwhelmed her.
She said, simply, “I love you, Gray Hawk, and I want you to know that you don’t have to take me back to St. Louis. I could write this letter at Fort Union, and then we could just go home.”
He grunted. He said, “We could, yes. It is good that you will consider this. But if we did not go back, you would never see your father, never know if he received the letter you would write, never know if he survived. You would worry, my wife, and then I would become concerned, and we would most likely have to make the trip later, when it is possible your father might have moved.”
“Please, Gray Hawk, I still fear that you might leave me there.”
“I will not. Believe me, Gen-ee, I have never intended to do that.”
“Yes, of course. I know that now, but still I fear… Gray Hawk, there is more,” she said. “I am almost afraid of going back. My society is so different from yours, and I’m concerned that something else might happen… There are few white men who love the Indian. There could be trouble if others discover we are married. It is possible we might be separated.”
Gray Hawk shook his head. “Then I would find you and capture you again. You are my wife, Gen-ee, for as long as I will live.”
“I am?”
He nodded. “Do your people not mate for life?”
“Yes, but I thought that—”
“Come, Gen-ee. We stand here talking when I have made a camp ahead of us. And while I enjoy the feel of you in my arms, we would be more comfortable elsewhere.”
“You have already set up…? But how did you…? I left long before you—”
“Gen-ee, you forget that I know this country well. I have had you in my sight for a while now. Long enough to set up camp in a spot where we should not be disturbed…even when morning comes…”
The intent behind his words, the sensual way in which he said them, was not lost on Genevieve.
She still had her arms around him, her face pressed into the shoulder of his shirt, when she grinned. “You are presuming much, are you not, my husband?”
“I do not think so. You are my wife.”
“Prove it.”
It was the second time this night that Gray Hawk had been asked to do that.
This particular time, however, he did not object.
“I would be happy to do so,” he said as he swept her up into his arms, carrying her as though she were as light as the robe around her shoulders. “I thought you would never ask.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Moonlight shone down upon the camp, lighting it up as though it were day.
Gray Hawk glanced at the makeshift shelter he had built against a cliff. The front of it leaned up toward the ledge while the back of the tepee-type design was enclosed by a length of buffalo hide. The whole thing disappeared into its surroundings of balsam and pine trees.
If enemies were about, which he doubted, they would have to look closely to find this place, almost hidden from view as it was.
Close by the camp ran a stream that looked as though its bottom were made of gold dust. Moonlight sparkled off the racing water, while the lapping of it provided a sound that was as beautiful as any song he had ever heard.
He took Genevieve first to the stream and, settling her down upon its bank, cupped his hands to bring water to her. He smiled at her, and she gave him back the same tender look.
He noted almost absently that she had taken to braiding her hair and had even painted a red streak down her center part, as was the style among the Blackfoot women. Her red locks, vibrant with color, glowed here in the moonlight and framed her oval face as though the space around her were alive with red fire.
He touched one of her braids, the texture of her hair as soft as a rose petal, even tied up as it was.
He had always thought his Gen-ee beautiful, but until this moment, he had never admired her so much.
Her skin radiated health; her cheeks were slightly red from the sun, and scattered across her nose was a spattering of freckles.
He ran his hand over her cheek, its feel beneath his fingertips delicate, soft.
He gazed into her eyes, her look slightly shadowed, mysterious. And her womanly scent—sweet, musky, sensual—made him want to hold her and never allow her out of his arms.
Had he known he would feel so possessive of her the first time he had seen her there in the fort, he might have run as far away as he could. But he hadn’t.
He had stayed, had even considered accepting her silly proposition, even before she had taken him captive.
She sat before him here, under the moonlight, in a tan Indian dress that was intricately decorated with porcupine quills and beads. On her legs she had tight leggings that reached all the way to her knees, and on her feet she wore moccasins. She looked Indian, yet not.
Her dress was Blackfoot, yes, but her skin, her hair, her eyes…all these things were uniquely hers and not easily compared.
Like her nose. He loved her nose, strong, yet small, the tip of it turning softly up at the end. He ran a fingertip over it and was rewarded with a deep sigh from her.
He groaned.
He loved those little moans. The sounds she made were music to his ears. He listened for them when he made love to her; he gloried in them.
She brought her chin up, and she seemed to beg him for a kiss. He didn’t hesitate to give it to her.
He almost groaned again. Her lips were sweet, and wet from the water. And he wanted so much more.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping inward to capture even more of her taste.
She pulled her head slightly away from him and she grinned at him, her look that of a winsome child.
She drew her shoulders back, her chest automatically going forward, and Gray Hawk’s gaze moved downward from her face.
She began to take off the sleeves of her dress, and he gazed back up at her, catching that look in her eyes that was part feline, part minx.
Next came her belt and then her dress. And soon she sat before him, clad only in knee-high leggings and moccasins.
He grinned and, squatting before her, began the task of removing these last.
She whimpered and made little movements with her legs, with her hips, that would have sent him over the edge if he hadn’t realized what lay in store, yet to come this night.
He held himself back.
“You are more beautiful,” he said, “than I remember. Perhaps I have been gone too long hunting.”
She smiled. “Perhaps.”
He was rubbing her feet, and she giggled, sitting forward in a hurry. “That tickles,” she said, lying back and sighing.
“What?” He did it again.
“Gray Hawk, stop that.”
“Do you mean this?”
She giggled again, sitting up.
Suddenly her face was in front of his. She leaned in toward him, and he drew forward.
“Gen-ee.”
“Gray Hawk.
”
Moonlight shone down on them, bathing their features in the soft rays of silvery beams while the fresh scent of balsam blew around them on the wind.
Caught in the moment, they stared at one another as though unable to believe the beauty of the other: one of them pale, with fiery hair glowing and shimmering with vitality under the waxen light; the other contrastingly dark, his mane of ebony hair glistening with a bluish-black luster.
They were connected, these two, and nothing mattered between them: not race, not culture, not even prejudice.
They loved, pure and simple.
Her lips were only a minuscule distance away from him, yet he didn’t touch her, wanting only to admire. He breathed in, and her pure scent, combined with the pine and balsam carried to him on the breeze, reached out to him; her fragrance, her radiance, wrapped around him more tightly than the clothes he wore.
He had never felt this way in his life. Not once. Not ever.
“I love you.”
They said the words together, as though their language were perfectly choreographed.
At last he leaned in, closing the tiny gap between them, kissing her with only a hint of sweet passion, yet she swooned forward as though he had given her the world.
His stomach reacted. Ah, his Gen-ee. How he loved her, how he gloried in her response to him.
All at once, her hands came up to his chest, and he felt the effect of her touch all through his system.
He shuddered, but she wasn’t done. She kissed her way over toward his ear, and as sensation swept over him again, he heard her say, “One of us has too many clothes on.”
He chuckled softly, but at the same time he drew his shirt over his head and, as though it were on fire, tossed it aside.
He felt her fingers at the tie around his waist, at his belt, loosening it.
His breechcloth fell off, leaving only his leggings and moccasins upon him.
And just as he had done with her earlier, she took his feet in her hands, removed each of his moccasins, and massaged first one and then the other foot.
She didn’t pay any attention to his leggings since these were only attached to his belt, which was already loosened. Instead she stared at him, at the effect she had on him, and he could feel himself harden even more under her look.
