by Gen Bailey
But even then, his body hadn’t reacted like this.
What would it feel like, he wondered, to experience her surrender? If he were to kiss her, what would she taste like? If he were to enfold her body within his in a most natural and elemental way, what would be her response?
But even as he fantasized, he knew it could never be. For these last fifteen years he had lived with a mission—which was as yet unfulfilled. He had also lived his life as though there would never be another woman but Wild Mint for him.
Perhaps it was true. Maybe there never would be someone to take that hallowed spot.
But maybe there was still love to be found in this ofttimes broken-hearted world. Mayhap if he reached out . . .
No. It could not be. Not with a woman who was English.
Still, he was not dead. Not yet. Perhaps when he reached his village again, he might look to see if there were a pleasing face who might wish to spend her life with him.
But not until his duty to Wild Mint was fulfilled. He must never forget.
Pivoting, he retraced his steps toward the Lake-That-Turns-to-Rapids, astonished that even now, with nothing but the mere thought of the English woman, his body was still firm, alert, ready . . .
A few days turned into a week. Aided by a diet of nourishing soups and fresh meat, Sarah’s strength gradually improved until she was able to sit up on her own.
As the need for sleep became less and she was awake more often, one of the first details Sarah noted was that White Thunder was frequently gone from the early hours of the morning ’til dusk. At first she had done little more than sleep while he was away from her, but as she grew better physically, she began to realize that she desired his company.
Certainly Mr. Thunder took pains to ensure her comfort before he left and when he returned, but Sarah was becoming aware that she had an emotional need for the company of others. She desired conversation; she wanted to laugh and to exchange confidences. Indeed, she needed a friend.
She had even broached the subject with White Thunder once, and he had listened very intently to her. But in the end, nothing had changed between them, and she was beginning to wonder what it was that an Indian gentlemen did all day.
She was not left long in pondering the puzzle. Every day he returned to the cave with some form of nourishment. Often he brought a deer or other meat to the cave. Other times, he returned with his bags crammed full of wild vegetables, berries and fruit.
Sarah helped him sort through the vegetables from the comfort of her bed whenever she could. However, that was often strained due to her inability to walk about freely. Although her strength was returning, she had yet to take any of her weight upon her feet.
She could crawl, however. That first day when she had discovered her hands and knees as a means of movement had been a joy. The first deed she had accomplished—after dressing herself in at least her chemise, corset and underskirt—was to crawl to the fire and prepare herself a drink.
That had been several days ago, and it had become an everyday habit. However, she still refrained from dressing herself fully, since crawling wreaked havoc on one’s clothes. Thus she would save her open gown for the day when she returned to her people.
But who were her people? Sarah dropped her head into her hands as if the action might cause the memories to return. Straining her mind, as she was doing now more times than not, brought about nothing but a headache.
She heard a rummaging in the corner; raising her head, she saw that it was Miss Squirrel, an animal that had taken an interest in the goings on in the cave. Miss Squirrel had become a daily visitor and Sarah had taken to talking to it, if only to ease her need for conversation.
“Well, there you are,” she said to it. “You know that you could come even closer to me and I would feed you without trying to make a soup out of you.”
The squirrel looked at her as if to say, “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true,” Sarah ventured. “You’ve become my friend and I wouldn’t make a meal out of a friend.”
The squirrel picked up a plum, which Sarah had deliberately left in a corner of the cave, and the animal stared back at Sarah as it began to munch.
“It’s good, isn’t it? ”
When the squirrel didn’t answer, Sarah sighed, and said, “Do you know that seven days have passed since I awoke here, and still I can’t remember my name or who I am or where I come from? ”
The squirrel chomped happily on the plum, staring at Sarah as though it truly were her friend and would listen to her troubles.
“Nor can I recall why I am here, or why I was in the woods, or if I were with someone or alone. But if I were alone, how had I come to be there? ”
The squirrel threw down the plum and looked up at her as though it might answer. But instead of speaking, it picked up one of the berries that Sarah had also left, and it began to chew on it.
“And what am I to do about Mr. Thunder? ”
The squirrel stared at her as though to say it had no idea what she was talking about.
“Who is he? Can I trust him? I certainly want to. Without him, I am doubtful that I would now be alive. So of course I want to like him. He is alien to me, though I must admit that I find him handsome. Do you know, Miss Squirrel, that if you promise to keep a secret, I’ll tell you that I find my gaze drawn to the look of the man’s chest more times than I ought.” Sarah smiled. “Indeed so much is this so, that had I the cloth, I would make the man a shirt simply to keep myself from wondering what it would be like if . . .” She paused. “Well, never mind.”
The squirrel finished the berries and picked up another plum.
“Dear Miss Squirrel,” Sarah said, “speaking of Mr. Thunder, I do believe that I have come to the decision that he is trustworthy. He certainly is kind, and is helpful to me. Nor does he offer criticism as a means to ‘assist’ me. He is the utmost in decorum and gentlemanlike behavior. Pray, I fear that from a woman’s perspective, her heart might be in danger with this man, for these qualities are said to be rare, indeed.”
The squirrel shifted its head to the side, as if to get a better image of this person who spoke to it, and Sarah went on to say, “But there are problems, of course. He’s Indian. I’m not. But this I can understand and appreciate. What I don’t comprehend is why he appears to be . . . cold toward me. There are times when I fear he must be made of snow and I of fire, for he is always cautious when he touches me, even when he must do so in order to help me.”
The squirrel sat down on her haunches, looking for all the world like she were more than a little interested in the conversation. She even offered some advice, chattering to Sarah in squirrel.
“What was that you said? ” Sarah asked. “That perhaps I make more of this than I should because he is the only human being in my vicinity? Maybe you’re right, because it does seem to me that he is faithful to the image of his deceased wife, to a fault. Indeed, I am left with the impression that Mr. Thunder might never be unfettered of his former wife’s hold over him until . . . well, I little know until what. Perhaps he might never be free of her influence over him a’tall.
“But this speculation could be the frivolous wonderings of a feminine mind. After all, I am in a position where he—and you, of course—are my whole world. I know more about him than I know of myself.
“I have wondered: What if I am married? I could be.”
“Do you speak to a ghost? ”
Sarah jumped and her heartbeat leaped into her throat. She turned quickly toward the cave’s entrance.
In a moment, however, the racing of her heart settled back to its normal pace. “Oh, Mr. Thunder,” she said, “I didn’t hear you enter. I’m afraid you startled me.” She placed her hand on her chest, not for theatrics, but because she had been truly startled. “I fear that you so rarely return before evening that I had let down my guard. I was not expecting you.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “It was not my intention to startle you. I heard talking and was wondering if so
meone had come to visit.”
“And so someone has,” Sarah replied. “’Tis Miss Squirrel, who visits with me most every day. However, she is no longer here. I fear she ran away when you entered.”
“As well she should,” he commented. “I might take it into my mind to have her for a meal.”
“Oh, no,” replied Sarah at once. “I specifically told her that she is my friend and that I would not eat her.”
White Thunder crossed the room to the fireplace, where Sarah was reposing. She still held a shell full of pine-needle tea at her side, but he seemed not to notice. He said, “Then I shall not place an arrow in Miss Squirrel’s side.” He knelt down on one knee beside Sarah. “Usually when I return, you are asleep, but I see that you have managed to make your way to the fire.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“This is good,” he said. “Did you walk? ”
“No,” replied Sarah. “I am still crawling. I fear my legs will not hold me yet.”
“Still, you are gaining back your strength and soon you will be walking about. I have been thinking about what we might do when you do come to remember your former life. And I concluded that it would be best that I should take you back to your family, who will be happy to know that you are still alive, I think.”
Sarah bit her lip. “And if I don’t remember anything? ’Tis hard for me, for I recall nothing.”
White Thunder placed a hand on her shoulder, and said, “You will remember. Be at your ease. It will come.”
Sarah gazed toward his hand, where it lay so close to her breast. He meant it as comfort. She said, “And if my memory doesn’t return? ”
“Then I will take you to my home, where you will be welcomed as a guest until a new home can be found for you. My mother will be happy to have you.”
And you? Would you be happy to have me? She wanted to ask the question, but knew she dare not. Not only was she uncertain of him, she was also uncertain of herself.
“I have brought you something,” he said.
Sarah’s eyes lit up. “Have you, now? ”
“It is not much.” He presented her with a stick. But to call it such was to do it a disservice. Indeed, it was a work of art, for the rod had been carefully carved into the shape of a cane. “It is to aid you in walking. You must try to stand and take a few steps every day, I think, for it may require some time for your leg muscles to remember again that their duty is to take you from one place to another.”
Sarah smiled up at him. “It is a beautiful present and I will cherish it and use it, indeed,” she said. “Did you make it yourself?”
He looked sheepish as he said, “I did.”
“Thank you. I will prize it all the more. It might help, too, the muscle spasms that almost cripple me at times, for the pain is almost unbearable.”
He frowned at her. “This should not be.”
His voice was so firm that Sarah sent him a wide-eyed stare.
“I will have to sit and contemplate and try to call back to mind the knowledge that my grandmother endeavored to teach me when I was a child. If I recall correctly, she used to say that most physical problems come from something missing in the food that a person eats. Though she tried to instruct me in specific cures, I fear I do not remember them.”
“Is your grandmother still living? ”
“Neh, no, she passed into the next world many years ago, and unluckily for me, the knowledge that she possessed died with her. I was not apt at learning the wisdom of her years; at the time, I thought of little more than the glory of the war path.”
“Indeed? ”
“It is so, for only as a warrior could I win the hand of Wild Mint, she who had hold of my heart from the first moment I ever beheld her.”
Sarah was silent. At length, however, she proffered, “Again, I am sorry for your loss.”
“Nyah-weh.” He, too, sat in silence. “Of course, now I wish I had listened more intently to my grandmother. But this I know: The broth I brew should contain foodstuffs found only in the bones of animals. Perhaps I am not boiling the bones long enough to ensure the marrow’s healing ingredients are in the broth.”
“It could be,” suggested Sarah. “At home, we often boil the broth for one or more days. It takes that long for the nourishment to leak out of the bones and into the liquid.”
He nodded. “Nyoh, I will try that, and we shall see if the cramps in your legs become less. But for now, if you would seek your bed and lie down, I will rub your legs—”
“Oh, no,” Sarah interrupted, and she noted that he seemed almost as relieved at her refusal as she was to give it.
But he said, “Do not fear me. I will take no advantage of you. I wish only to help take away the pain.”
“I thank you and I understand that well,” she replied, “but I grasp, too, your hesitation. After all, we are alone, and . . .”
“You are safe with me.”
She brought up her gaze to stare at him. “Truly? ”
“Truly. Do not think, however, that because I have given you my word I do not find you desirable.”
If possible, Sarah’s eyes widened further as she regarded him. Was it true?
He continued, “But as you know I am committed to she who can no longer be with me in the flesh. Besides, you have my word that nothing shall pass between us that you do not wish to experience, and a Seneca Indian’s word of honor, once pledged, is sacred.”
Sarah could barely credit what she did next; perhaps his words triggered a challenge. Whatever the cause—and unable to look him directly in the eye as she said it—she whispered, “But, Mr. Thunder, what would you do if I were willing to . . . to . . .”
She thought she heard him groan, and she raised up her glance quickly to see if he were in pain. “Sir?”
He seemed to be all right, at least physically so, but she watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Was he reacting to what she said?
At last he appeared to come to grips with the constriction in his throat, and he said, “And are you considering testing the pleasures that can be found between a man and a woman? Is that where your thoughts are tending? ”
“I—I . . . no, I think not.”
Though Sarah’s gaze could still not quite meet his, she watched him beneath her lashes, and when he appeared to settle down, she said, “It is only that you are . . . male . . . and I am . . . female . . . and if you touch me . . . there might be a complication.”
“Only if you desire it,” he said, his voice low as he repeated, “Do you? ”
“I . . . no . . .”
“Then there is no danger.” His manner and his voice appeared to be normal again, and he continued, saying, “Come, lie down. I will rub your legs so that the pain goes away. And as I do so, I will tell you a story to take our attention away from the pleasures that men and women can experience with one another. Would you like that? ”
“I . . .” She still couldn’t quite look him in the eye, but at last, gazing up at him quickly, she said, “Yes, please. I believe that I would enjoy your touch upon me very much.”
His response was a stunned silence, then an involuntary growl followed; it was low, soft and utterly masculine. Unwittingly, something very feminine in her responded to him, but she was quick to say, “My legs, I should have said. Please excuse me. I meant that I would enjoy your massage, since, when my leg muscles spasm, they hurt to the point of crippling me.”
“I understood your intent,” he said, and they stared at one another for so many moments, Sarah was left almost breathless.
What was happening to her?
Sarah wasn’t certain, but whatever it was, it felt wonderful. She warned herself that she dare not like the feeling too greatly. After all, he was already committed, even though that commitment was to a woman who was no longer alive in the flesh.
Besides, she thought, for all her knowledge, she might be pledged to another, too.
Six
“This is a story often told by the old
men of our Nation,” he began, his voice soft.
“I am honored to hear it,” said Sarah.
“Very well. Once, not so long ago, a great Seneca sachem was visited by three spirits.” White Thunder’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “These spirits showed themselves to this great man so that they might tell him the story of how the white man came to this land that we Seneca call Turtle Island . . .” White Thunder, who was kneeling beside her, paused as he shifted his massage from one of her legs to the other. “Is it the lower muscles of your legs alone that spasm when you try to walk? ”
“Yes, sir, it is,” she whispered. “And they convulse even when I am resting.”
Sarah was lying facedown on her soft bed of blanket and pine boughs. Interestingly, though it would never do to possess such a berth in a stately home, this makeshift bed was unusually comfortable.
He asked, “Your legs convulse even when you are resting? ”
“Aye, sir. Sometimes that is when it is the worst.”
White Thunder frowned, looking as though his thoughts might be weighty. He continued to knead the painful muscles in her legs, absentmindedly. Meanwhile, Sarah settled down to enjoy the simple pleasure of being cared for. There was a risk, of course. She liked White Thunder, and with their situation—the fact that they were alone—anything might happen.
Still, the massage did ease the pain in her body. Indeed, it seemed to her that this man’s graze was a little like stumbling onto a bit of heaven.
So perhaps it was worth whatever risk she took in allowing it. Besides, having dressed herself in her chemise, stays and underskirt, Sarah felt secure in the fact that there were enough layers of clothing beneath this thin covering of blanket to provide adequate defense. Not that there was a need for one.
That was another important factor to consider: She trusted him. Even though beneath her skirt, she was quite bare—as was the fashion of the day—she trusted him with what was probably her most precious gift.
Sarah had never given the form of feminine clothing much consideration, since it was the general mode by which all women of quality dressed. But when White Thunder’s touch ventured up toward her knee—a scant few inches away from an area of Sarah’s body that was most private—she was dismayed to discover that his touch felt erotic.
