After the Thunder

by Genell Dellin

  She didn’t want to have to hold on to that peace right now, though. Tonight he was here in the flesh and their star was shining and she wanted to live, really live. She got up and walked purposefully across the camp to her saddlebags, took out a vial, returned to the fire and poured some oil into a tin cup, then held it over the flames. Soon a heady, spicy fragrance filled the air.

  “That smells delicious,” he said, “but if it’s a bedtime snack, I think I’d prefer more chocolate.”

  She laughed.

  “This isn’t something to eat, Greedy Shadow.”

  He laughed, too.

  “This morning I’m Sleepy Shadow, tonight I’m Greedy Shadow. Don’t you have any good descriptions of me?”

  “How’s Passionate Shadow?”

  “Great! But I’m too lazy to live up to it right now.”

  He stretched his arms and turned around, lay down on his side on the bedroll and propped up on one elbow to watch her.

  “Or, then again, maybe not,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “I have something else in mind.”

  “Oh? Surprising Cotannah. How’s that for an apt description?”

  She swirled the oil in the cup, tested it with her finger and found it pleasantly warm, stood up and walked over to him. She stood over him, looking down into his uplifted face.

  “Take off your clothes,” she said.

  “I thought you had something else in mind.”

  “I do. Trust me.”

  “That is the scariest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  That made them both laugh.

  “Take off your clothes and lie flat on your back,” she persisted.

  “Is this another of your gifts of earthy pleasures?”

  “Yes. It may turn out to be your very favorite.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His tone was such a low, rough caress that she could hardly think what she was about.

  “As long as we don’t get completely beyond making love, I know what my favorite is,” he said.

  “You’re becoming obsessed,” she said, teasing him.

  Then she bit her tongue, afraid she’d raise his old demons of doubt again.

  “See, this’ll be good for you,” she said. “Maybe it’ll get your mind onto something else.”

  “I doubt that,” he drawled. “You’ve taught me about the pleasures of the flesh too well.”

  She set the cup down, got down on her knees to unbutton his shirt.

  “Not with your seductive fingers moving on my skin, taking my clothes off my body, it won’t.”

  Finally, laughing, pretending to struggle over what they should be doing, the two of them together managed to divest him of his clothes.

  “Your turn is coming,” he promised. “I get to do whatever this is to you in return. Right after I make love to you.”

  “If you’re able,” she said. “I intend to have you so relaxed you won’t be able to lift a finger.”

  And so comfortable on this earth and so addicted to my touch that you won’t be able to leave me.

  She banished the torturous thought immediately. That wasn’t worthy of the new person she was becoming.

  But it was typical of the old, determined Cotannah, who was known for never giving up.

  As was the next thing that popped out of her mouth.

  “Look at our star,” she said, as she dipped the fingers of both her hands into the warm perfumed oil. “Let’s wish on it. That’s another thing the old women said when I was a girl: ‘Wish on a bright star.’”

  She paused, sat back on her heels, and looked up at the star as he was doing.

  “What shall we wish?” he said, a quiet edge of warning in his voice.

  She ignored it and boldly said what was uppermost in her heart.

  “Let’s wish we had the rest of our lives together. Where would we be, Shadow? What would we be doing?”

  He went very still.

  “Don’t do this, Cotannah.”

  She smiled. “Pretend. Pretend you aren’t going. I want to pretend you’ll still be on this earth with me.”

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t, Cotannah. You’re hurting us.”

  “I’m hurting anyhow. On top of the peace you’ve helped me find, I’m hurting anyhow.”

  So much pain sounded suddenly in her voice that it must have filled him with pity.

  “All right,” he said slowly. “If I stayed on this earth until I was old …”

  She turned to him and began to rub his muscles with the perfumed oil, wanting now to distract him from the fact that he was talking about things he didn’t want to talk about, participating in a fantasy he thought would only hurt them both.

  “You would be where?” she said, to encourage him.

  “In the New Nation. Living near Tuskahoma, probably, although I used to think I’d come back here to Blue River and stay someday. That’s how you’ve changed me, Cotannah. My dream always was to use the gift of my hands to heal, but now because of you, I’m connected to people and I would use it for them as much as for the animals and the land.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “I’d heal as many as I could and give spiritual gifts to as many as would take them, but I’d stay close to the animals and the Earth Mother, too.”

  Then he looked into her eyes.

  “What would you be doing?” he said.

  “Loving you,” she said, without hesitation. “And your children. And I might have a school for girls, older girls,” she said suddenly, although the words shocked her totally because she’d never known she’d had that thought before. “Emily’s the teacher, so she would teach them their lessons and I would teach them about men and how to protect themselves and how to become persons of their own.”

  His tense muscles began to relax beneath her hands as he laughed.

  “Sounds like Emily would be doing most of the work.”

  “Not so! My part would be harder by far.”

  “I doubt that Emily will think so.”

  “We’ll have a new kind of finishing school,” she said, as visions flashed through her mind of the good such a school could do. “Instead of teaching girls to please everyone, we’ll teach them to please themselves!”

  “Is that the same as teaching them to be selfish?”

  “No. It’s teaching them to survive. They can still be good, strong, unselfish women in the old Choctaw way.”

  The phrase reminded her of that day on the veranda at Las Manzanitas with Cade, a day that now seemed to belong to another life entirely.

  “We’ll dedicate the whole school to Cade,” she said, laughing a little. “After all, he’s the one who sent me back to the Nation to learn. He just didn’t know it would be you who was here to teach me.”

  And so they teased and laughed and dreamed of a future that might not, probably would not, come to pass, and the star shone on. Cotannah learned every inch of his wonderful body, soaked the shape of it into her palms and her fingertips and stored it in her own flesh.

  Then, when it was hours later and he had caressed her all over, too, with the wonderful, fragrant oil and then filled her up with his love again, she lay in his arms while he slept and gazed at the bright Blue River star. She never took her eyes from it and she prayed to the Great Spirit to give her the strength to give him up if she had to, but she prayed harder for the wisdom to know what to do to keep Walks-With-Spirits out of range of the Lighthorsemen’s rifles.

  The star was gone when she woke alone the next morning, the sunlight was sparkling everywhere on the dew and on spiderwebs made during the night. She sat up and blinked at the bright strands connecting leaf to leaf, woven lace thrown over the bushes like veils.

  She felt as if she were still in her dreamworld—stray images glittered everywhere in her mind, scraps of vivid dreams flashed through her memory. The yearling horses running, steam rising from their backs. A grown horse, a golden palomino, calling to them in a high, urge
nt whinny, steam rising from its back, too, although it was walking slowly behind the young ones. The red knit cap of Emily’s or Tay’s or whoever’s that she’d helped herself to and then lost, floating in the fast water of the creek.

  It had all been about to fit together just before she woke.

  And Peter Phillips. She had dreamed of Peter Phillips, too.

  Suddenly she saw Peter Phillips with the steaming horses, leading the three babies toward her, calling to her, smiling broadly.

  Then the dream faded and real memories began coming back to her.

  Phillips squatted beside his palomino, brushing its legs, saddle upended on the ground, steam rising from the horse’s back.

  She thought about that picture for a moment.

  Steam. Because it had been a cool, fall morning, and the horse was hot.

  He must have brushed away some sweat before she rode up.

  The horse was hot. Phillips was not saddling up to ride out; he must have just ridden in.

  On the morning Jacob died!

  She froze in place, closed her eyes, and went over every detail of that meeting. She had told him she lost her hat. Exactly that. Her hat.

  And when she and Walks-With-Spirits were leaving Tall Pine for McAlester, he had said, “I need your warm, red cap.” She knew that’s what he had said. “Your warm, red cap.”

  She had never worn the warm, red cap before. The only way he could’ve known what her lost hat looked like was that he had seen it floating in the creek. The creek that lay between Tall Pine and Tuskahoma. The creek would’ve carried it away soon, so he’d been right behind her when she’d turned and started back to the house. He must’ve ridden fast while she dawdled in the beautiful morning woods, hoping, perhaps, to have his horse brushed and turned out and himself in the house at the breakfast table before she came back.

  Peter Phillips had ridden to Tall Pine from Tuskahoma while William Sowers had stood over Jacob’s body in the street Maybe Peter had been the person inside the mercantile whom Jacob had called back to over his shoulder.

  Her blood stopped. Really, she’d never thought of it before, but no one had ever really questioned Peter Phillips about Jacob’s death! The Lighthorse had asked him if he knew anything about Jacob’s enemies and he had said he didn’t. She herself had asked him that, too. But no one had questioned him with the idea that he might have been the killer.

  He could’ve killed Jacob for his share of the mercantile.

  But surely Olmun would be the partner to inherit his son’s share in the event of his death.

  Perhaps they’d quarreled over how to conduct the business.

  But how could he have killed him?

  Her heart sank into pure despair. There wasn’t a mark on Jacob. Jacob, strong, healthy, young Jacob. That’s why everyone, including the Judges, thought Walks-With-Spirits had killed him: because if there wasn’t a wound on him, he must have died by magic.

  However, she would bet anything she owned—she would bet Pretty Feather, even—that Peter Phillips was in Tuskahoma, with Jacob at the mercantile on that fateful early morning, that Peter was the one to whom Jacob spoke his last words.

  She sat straight up in the bedroll.

  Another thing that made her believe that—Peter Phillips knew that Jacob hadn’t died by the black medicine. He must know it. Because, even though he hadn’t hesitated to say right out loud to her that Walks-With-Spirits surely was guilty of killing Jacob by magic, he wasn’t scared that Walks-With-Spirits would do the same to him. He had felt perfectly free to insult Walks-With-Spirits to his face in the garden at Tall Pine!

  She threw back the covers, leapt to her feet, and ran toward the river. “Walks-With-Spirits!” she called. “Walks-With-Spirits, where are you?”

  She had run halfway to the riverbank before she realized she was buck naked. Skidding to a stop in the wet grass, she turned and ran back toward the camp, hoping to find her shirt, at least, before he responded to her call.

  Which was pretty silly, she told herself, considering he had just left her bed.

  His dark red hunting shirt was the first garment she found, so she snatched it up and jerked it on over her head. It fell to her knees.

  She pulled on her breeches under it, anyway. She might as well find her moccasins, too, because they’d be packing and leaving and the sooner the better. Frantically, while she braided her hair and tied it with a scrap of rawhide thong, she tried to think how many days were left before his one last, precious week was up. They had no time to waste getting this information to the Judges.

  She had lost track of time since they’d been alone here in their own private world, she had tried to forget about time except to wish it would stop, but to the best of her hurried calculations, if they started traveling now, they’d arrive at Tall Pine with a day and a half, at least, and two nights remaining before the dawn designated for the execution.

  Her whole body shook as she pulled the moccasins on and laced them up to her knees. They needed to be on the trail now. First, they ought to search the mercantile and see if there was any evidence that pointed to Peter Phillips—which the Lighthorse had not done on the day of Jacob’s death. They needed to search Peter’s room at Tall Pine, too.

  She glanced up at the trees along the river, saw a place where the sunlight struck the leaves to purest gold, and then Walks-With-Spirits appeared in front of the birches and elms even though she’d seen no movement at all. Her gaze clung to him. She could never get accustomed to the way he could magically materialize of out nowhere.

  Their horses grazed a stone’s throw from him, but they’d never even pricked their ears in his direction to let her know he was there. Animals never betrayed him.

  “Shadow! Come here!”

  Once again she ran, this time straight to him. He laughed and held out his arms.

  “Did I hear you calling me to breakfast?” he said, teasing her as he scooped her up and swung her around.

  “No time for breakfast today! We need to be on our way back to Tall Pine. My holitopa, I think Peter Phillips knows how Jacob really died. I feel in my heart that he’s guilty of the murder!”

  She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him as hard as she could.

  He stiffened.

  “Cotannah,” he said, “no. Please, please my darling. Don’t do this to yourself.”

  He set her on the ground and took her by the shoulders.

  She dragged a long, ragged breath into her lungs to steady herself.

  “Listen to me,” she said, laying her finger across his lips to stop his protests. “You don’t know what I’ve remembered.”

  Quickly, she told him all of it.

  She watched his eyes and made herself admit what she saw there. Exactly what she’d feared: pity.

  “Don’t look at me like that! Aren’t you listening? Walks-With-Spirits, we need to go back now!”

  “Darling. My darling Cotannah. Listen to me. If Phillips was coming instead of going from Tall Pine that morning, if he insulted me with no fear, those things do not prove him a killer.”

  A look of exasperation replaced the pity in his eyes.

  “Think, Cotannah!” he said. “How can you prove that Phillips did this—if he did—in the short time we have left? The Lighthorse have never even suspected him, so it would take a lot to convince them. Don’t waste our last days together, ’Tannah. Think about that. How could you prove it?”

  That stopped her, but only for a moment.

  “I’ll … I’ll make him confess!”

  “How?”

  “Well … he likes me, I’ll get him talking …”

  “You’ve already talked to him, and he certainly hasn’t blurted out a confession. Why would he tell you anything different now?”

  “I’ll flirt with him now. I’ve never done so before, and he’s always trying to flirt with me.”

  His face took on a fierce look she’d never seen before and his fingers tightened until they dug into her flesh.


  “No! Don’t be flirting with him. You might get into another situation like the one with Jacob.”

  “I can manage Peter Phillips,” she said, knowing that she could.

  More and more emotions crowded into his face like storm clouds in a darkening sky. She ignored them—she could talk him out of his doubts on the way.

  “Come on, Shadow, let’s go! You’re right when you say we don’t have much time but I think a couple of days will be plenty once I turn my wiles on crafty Peter Phillips.”

  “I’m not going with you. I’m having no part of this false hope that is only going to hurt you more in the end.”

  For an instant, fear, fear cold as the frost of a November morning touched her.

  She started to answer him, had it on the tip of her tongue to beg him to come with her, to help her, then she stopped and took a deep, shaky breath. Somehow the peace was growing inside her. If she had to do this alone, she would. She could. She was strong enough now.

  And she would get the truth out of Phillips, if she had to seduce him for it. Men said lots of things in bed that they wouldn’t say anywhere else.

  He saw the thought the minute it entered her head.

  “You belong to me,” he cried. “I don’t want any other man touching you! Don’t do this Cotannah!”

  Sheer consternation stopped her heart.

  “But it wouldn’t mean anything,” she cried in return. “And I’ll be careful … I’ll be in control …”

  He wrapped his arms hard around her and pulled her against him as if he were drowning and she was a rock, caressing her with his big, hard hands, begging her with every touch not to go.

  “I have to do this, Shadow, my love. I am not going to let you die without a fight.”

  “I can’t let you go,” he muttered, while he was kissing her hair.

  “Then come with me.”

  “I can’t do that either.”

  She hugged him as hard as she could.

  “Don’t worry, don’t fret. In my heart I know he’s the killer, and that same instinct tells me I can prove he is …”