by Jenna Kernan
She gasped. “You were not!”
“Works,” he said. “I found a Sioux boy after a blizzard once. He killed and gutted his horse and crawled inside. He lived through what killed many.”
“How perfectly dreadful. I might rather die.”
He studied her. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“Why do you say so?”
“I’ve decided you’re stronger than you look.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you could best me in any contest of strength.”
He didn’t think so. Not all strength was physical. His mother taught him that. The white woman had a burning desire to stay out here and he admired her for it.
“I’m talking about inner strength—determination.”
She gazed at the sky. “My mother calls it stubbornness and considers it one of my most egregious flaws.”
She wiggled her toes. His body’s reaction was swift and powerful. He stiffened and just had time to yank her feet clear before his erection filled the gap.
She stared at her toes, giving him a moment to recover himself. In all his born days he’d never had such a sudden response to a female.
“My humblest thanks.”
“How are your feet, Princess?”
“Why do you call me princess?”
He wondered if he should tell her the truth. “You just look like one to me.”
“Well, I’m not. The best I can hope for is duchess.”
“What?” he asked.
“Do you know, Troy, this is the first time in my life that no one knows me on sight? I walked into that fort and said I was a painter and everyone just accepted that.”
“I think your paintings helped convince them.”
“At home, when I enter a room every soul there knows me as Eleanor Hart, heir to the Hart fortune. It’s been that way as long as I can remember. It’s quite tedious.”
“Being rich or being famous?”
“Both. Mother and Father own enough land to practically start their own country for all the good it does them. They can barely stand to be in the same room with one another.”
Troy wondered about this. Was that why she left—because her home had no love left in it?
“But they must have loved each other once or they would not have married.”
She rolled her eyes in a way one does at an ignorant child.
“Love matches are considered gauche. People of my class marry to combine fortunes or seek some other advantage, such as land, title or acceptance into society.”
“Gauche?”
“Beneath us.”
“Terrible.”
She cocked her head and stared at him as if he’d gone mad. “Oh, not at all. My mother made a very good match. She comes from old money and my father wanted very badly to break into society. She was his avenue. And she in turn became the wealthiest woman in America through her marriage, you see—a smart match. I hope I shall do so well.”
He didn’t see. This world she inhabited sounded horrible.
Images of his parents rose in his mind. They had loved each other fiercely and after his father’s death, he knew his mother mourned. He’d never thought them lucky before, but perhaps the freedom to choose each other was all the luck anyone had a right to in this world.
Since Rachel, Troy never met a woman he wanted enough to give up wandering. Though he had opportunities to put down roots. Even had the attention of a chief’s daughter once. Many women, but none of them white; he’d never allowed himself to consider one again. He gazed at Lena, surprised at the regret rolling within him now. She would have her loveless marriage of power and he, his solitude. A pity for them both.
“What happens if you love someone else?”
She pressed a slim hand to her lips and thought a moment. “Well, after I have fulfilled my duty, I could take a lover.”
He could barely breathe for the casualness of her tone. Who was this woman before him?
“What duty?”
“Why to produce a heir of course. What kind of question is that?”
“If that is your duty, then why did your parents allow you to come to this place to paint?”
Now he saw the truth in her eyes. She was not cold and indifferent as she appeared. He knew that look, had seen it many times—the look of the hunted.
She lifted her chin and tried for the haughty expression she mastered so perfectly, but instead her shoulders drooped. Lena fidgeted with the nail of her index finger, which was now a healthy pink.
“They agreed to let me go as far as Fort Union and only if accompanied by trusted escorts.”
His eyes widened as realization dawned. “You running?”
She nodded. “But only for a little while. I know I must go back.”
He realized again how little he knew her.
“How is it with your women?” she asked.
“What’s that?”
“In your tribe, the Cherokee, do parents arrange the matches?”
He smiled. “Not often. A man likes to think he picks a woman but usually it is the other way around.”
She reached for her stockings and shoes, drawing them on. “Does she choose the best provider or the man with the highest status?”
“Many women are practical. They generally pick a man with their parents’ approval and one who can provide for her and her children.”
“You mean their children.”
“No. The children, home and all possessions belong to the woman. If he does not treat her well, he must leave her clan and his children behind.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Princess, just because it is different from your way does not make it wrong.”
“What about the chief? He has control of the tribe.”
“Yes and no. He must listen to his advisors, who listen to their wives. If he does not fulfill his duty to the people then he is no longer chief.”
“They assassinate him?”
Troy laughed. “We are civilized, more civilized then the whites, I think. He is replaced by another man elected by the women of the tribe.”
“The women? Surely not.”
“Surely, sure,” he said and laughed. “They select the chief. They choose their husbands, own their land and their children. When a man marries, he leaves his clan and joins hers.”
Eleanor’s jaw dropped as she considered the stringent rules that governed her life. Up until this day she never questioned them. They were the foundation of all her beliefs. Now they held some noticeable cracks.
Did Cherokee women really choose their husbands?
She stared at him, noting again the straight, narrow nose and the hair that held too much wave and a slightly russet color.
“Your mother chose a white man.”
“By your way of thinking. But by the Indian way she chose a man. With them I am not half Cherokee. I am all Cherokee because my mother is Cherokee.” He swallowed hard. “Was Cherokee.”
“How do you think of it?”
“I use to think I was just a man, but with you I am Cherokee.”
“Half Cherokee.”
“It is the half that matters to your people.”
She said nothing, but her expression told him she knew this was so.
She cleared her throat, but he did not glance her way.
“I wish we lived in a world where appearances were not quite so important.”
“I’ve been looking for that world myself,” he said. “People are quick to judge by what they see.”
She brightened and latched onto this sentiment. “That’s right. I wish to be judged on my own merit. At least that’s what I want for my paintings. I know I can get them in a gallery just by signing my name. But that feels like cheating. How am I ever to know if it is my work or my family name that brings success?”
He nodded his understanding. “The fur company don’t care what color you are as long as the beaver’s plush.”
He’d lost some of the morose continence and that
cheered her. They seemed to have found some common ground at long last. She dived in, anxious to expand their understanding. “And you have an advantage as an Indian, because you know how to hunt and trap.”
His indulgent smile and sad eyes told her at a glance that she’d said something wrong again. She felt the fragile bond between them fray.
“Princess, I spent the first nine years of my life with my head pressed to a goat’s side and my hand around a teat. I never even saw a beaver until I came here. But I learned. Now the beaver disappear faster than the Cherokee and this way of being is no more.”
What a struggle his life had been. It shaped him as surely as the sea shaped the cliffs. Her life had been calm, allowing her to bob along with the tide. She felt sad and guilty at once.
“Is that why you turned to scouting, because of a shortage of pelts?”
“If I could sell them, I’d find them. But no one’s buying. Hear that gentlemen prefer silk to felt now. Good for beaver, but bad for business.”
She pondered an entire industry destroyed by a whim of fashion and glanced at the rosy velvet of her skirts, feeling suddenly vain and selfish.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll find work. Your people think an Indian—any Indian—makes a good guide. Maybe we do, but only because there’s little else for us without our land.”
Eleanor shifted uncomfortably knowing she had chosen Troy because she wanted an expert Indian scout. How she had misjudged him. He was so much more than he appeared.
He blew a hard breath and looked about to speak when he stared down at her rumpled, wet attire. Her teeth began to chatter once more.
“Princess, we got to get you out of those wet things.”
Chapter 8
“Put this on,” Troy said.
Eleanor accepted the buckskin shirt. “Must I?”
He thrust a pair of moccasins at her. “These, too.”
She clasped the enormous footwear and shirt, turning to her belongings to select a woolen skirt in indigo blue along with two damp petticoats, before heading toward the privacy of the wild rosebushes. His voice pursued her.
“If you don’t take off that damned corset, I’ll cut it off and burn it.”
“Dreadful man,” she whispered as she reached for the buttons of her cloak. Her fingers tingled now, but worked adequately as she disrobed, abandoning the proper for the practical. She pulled off her dress, unlaced her corset and dropped her petticoats, leaving only a chemise. She glanced toward the clearing to be sure Troy remained engaged. He stood with his back to her, unloading the animals. Quickly, she peeled off the last of her saturated wardrobe and dragged the buttery soft leather over her nude body. Other than the feel of his belly beneath the sensitive soles of her feet, nothing ever felt so decadent. She thought back to the sensuality of that moment and wondered if he felt it as well. The experience cut her to the quick. The mere recollection of her feet pressed to the hard definition of his torso lifted the hairs on the back of her neck and made her breathing catch. Then his hot breath fanned her fingers and, just when she thought she’d perish from delight, he placed her hand on the warm velvet of his skin and hard muscle of his belly. It took all her resolve not to stroke him.
She dropped the leather hem of his shirt, surprised to see it reached her knees. The smell of buckskin, and of the man who wore it, rose about her. She tipped her chin downward and inhaled deeply of the heady scent, trying to fix it in her mind. For good or ill, this was a day she would never forget.
Her feet did not fill his moccasins, but she relished the soft rabbit-fur lining and tied her pink garter ribbons about her ankles to hold the footwear in place. She wiggled her toes in the plush interior and sighed in pleasure.
What would her mother say?
That thought straightened her spine as she imagined the disapproving glare she would receive with a whispered chastisement. She shivered and dragged on her wet petticoats. The skirts felt cold against her skin so she tied them over the dry buckskin, using it like a shift. Next came the indigo skirt of wool, smelling as musty as wet sheep. If they encountered much more of this infernal weather, her clothes would surely molder.
Dressed in this bizarre melting of Indian and European style, she stepped from her boudoir behind the rosebush and draped her discarded clothing over the branches in the late afternoon sun, hopeful the breeze would dry them.
Troy glanced in her direction and then froze, skinning knife forgotten in his hand.
“That old shirt never looked so good.”
She gave a quick perusal to see that nothing vital was observable other than a strip of skin from her neck and breastbone, no more revealing than her most reserved evening gown. The baggy garment was quite modest, covering her from collar to knee. The soft leather draped over her breasts, but was much more relaxed than her normally snug attire. She found the lack of structure secretly appealing.
“Thank you, Mr. Price.”
He glanced at her skirt. “I ought to put you in leggings.”
Eleanor stiffened. “You will not.”
He shrugged and returned to skinning.
She gazed at the antelope. “I wish I could have sketched that first.”
“I’ll kill you another tomorrow. Right now, I’m hungry.”
He finished the job without wasted effort as she admired the grace of his movements. He’d make a wonderful model, she thought as he turned his attentions to starting a fire.
“I’m sure all the wood is too wet to burn,” she observed, feeling sorry at the fact. He gave her yet another of his impatient looks. She scowled back. His censure grew quite tiresome at times. Apparently their truce had ended.
Another meal of dried elk did not appeal. Surely he would not eat the antelope raw. She reconsidered and judged he would.
“Is it true you have eaten dog?” she asked.
“Where’d you hear that?” he asked as he gathered a wooly looking substance in his hand.
“In Troy Price, Tales of a Trapper.”
“Lordy, them books again.”
“Have you ever read one?”
“No—all stuff and nonsense.” His eyes narrowed. “You got one?”
She smiled. “I have three.”
“Three.” He sounded aggravated again. “I ought to burn them for tinder. Thought I told you to leave the books back at the fort.”
She dipped her head. “They’re very small.”
He sighed and struck the metal ring against a bit of rock, sending sparks into his tuff of wool. Quick as a rabbit, he snatched up the smoking fluff and transferred it to a strip of bark. He kneeled on all fours and blew, causing a wisp of smoke to rise. Then he added strands of dry grass from his pouch. In a moment a flame appeared. She clapped her hands as if she were at the opera.
“I didn’t know wool burned so easily,” she said.
She detected a note of aggravation in his voice. “It’s cattail.”
He fed wood shavings from his pouch to the fire and then left the delicate flame to head into the willows. She stared at his fragile creation, knowing it would neither warm nor cook. She sighed and went to retrieve a candle and book before the sun disappeared.
She tipped the wick to the flame. Hot wax extinguished the fragile fire. She held the snuffed candle in her fist as a sinking feeling seized her. At that moment he returned carrying an armload of kindling.
His gaze took in the scene and then pinned her with a look.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still clutching the snuffed candle.
“You always this much trouble?”
“Am I? I think I require the usual amount of tending.”
He exhaled through his nose with a force that made her certain he disagreed, then he cleared the area before arranging the fodder again. He next relieved her of her candle and only then took steel to flint once more.
“Next time wait until the fire’s hot.” In a few minutes he had the flames lapping up a pyramid of sticks. “I’m getting more
wood. Don’t douse it again or I will burn that book.”
She kept her distance from the flame until he returned dragging a thick log behind him, which he propped against a tree trunk and kicked. The limb broke neatly in two pieces. She noted that only the bark was damp, the inner core looked perfectly dry.
“Where did you discover dry wood?”
He smiled indulgently. “Don’t it say in that book?”
She ignored the jibe. “No indeed.”
“Pull dead wood off the living tree. It’s off the ground and under the cover of the branches. Mostly it’ll go.”
“Brilliant.”
He laughed. “Never been called that before.”
She removed the pins from her hair and combed out the thick mass, attacking the tangles with vigor. Since coming from New Orleans, she had styled her own hair. When she glanced up she found him studying her in a way that made her feel as if she still wore her corset.
“What is it?”
“Your hair is pretty as red fox tail.”
Her hand came up to tug at a springy curl wondering if his comment was compliment or criticism. “It has been the bane of my existence.”
“That good?”
“No. A curse. So thick and curly. That alone is enough to bear, but also this color. It’s dreadfully out of fashion. I look abysmal in the pastels so popular today. I fear it looks distinctly Irish. My father says, ‘If not for your expensive attire, Eleanor, you could be mistaken for a scullery maid.’”
She laughed and noted he did not. It was in that instant that she recalled his father was Irish. Eleanor lifted her hands to cover her mouth.
“Oh, Troy, I am so sorry. Could I possibly be more insensitive? It is just so many Irish are servants and…” She stopped before saying her father would not hire them, considering the lot thieves and cutthroats. Up until this moment she had no reason to doubt him. Now she wondered about what else he was wrong.
She stared at her hands, feeling her ears heat as if on fire.
“I’m sure your father was a wonderful man.” Her voice sounded choked to her own ears.
“For an Irishman,” he added.
The silence stretched. At last he returned to the antelope and she to braiding her hair. Her fingers threaded one section over the next as she watched him cut the flank of the antelope into strips and skewer the meat on spears of fresh willow. As he worked, she mentally listed all the people with whom her parents would not associate. She followed their lead without a moment’s hesitation. Now doubt nibbled at her insides. What gave them the right to judge people on sight?