by Jenna Kernan
“Stealing all their land and making them farmers.”
“The reservation is a huge tract of land.”
“Bad land, useless land.”
“Well, we can’t let them run about killing people and capturing women and children.” She dared him to argue with that by lifting her painted chin at him.
He cast out a long sigh. “It is a war, Lucie. Do not be fooled. Instead of shooting them or starving them, they are stealing their children, stealing their future.”
“It is better than extermination.”
“Better is not right.”
She rose. “How dare you judge me? I was trying to help these poor children. I was trying to ease their way. They need an education and vocational skills.” She folded her arms before her in a gesture she knew was defensive, but could not seem to help. Was she trying to convince him or herself?
He stood now, making her feel small and ashamed.
“Eagle Dancer failed to make you an Indian. What makes you think you will do better making his children white?”
“That’s not what we are doing.”
He said no more, but instead glanced up at the sky. She followed his example. They had talked and argued through the setting of the sun and as the stars grew bright above them, but now the stars were gone and the air held the feel of rain.
Sky glanced to the river. “We have to move west, away from the water and these trees.”
“Will it be bad?”
He did not answer at first, just listened to the rustle of the leaves as he studied the wind. One moment the wind was warm and dry and the next the direction changed and the temperature dropped, blowing past her with icy fingers.
He gave a low whistle and Ceta trotted into the clearing. He was sorry she had to leave the fire, but knew it would do her little good when the rain came. She had been through many storms on the plains. Surely she remembered their power. Too bad they did not have a tipi, where the destructive winds could find no perch and simply whistle past. But barring that, he knew the trees were the very worst place to wait out a storm.
Lucie packed quickly as Sky saddled the horses. In a matter of a few minutes, they were riding west, diagonal to the approaching storm.
Sky cocked his head as the first rumble reached him. Soon the thunder increased until it sounded like the running hooves of stampeding buffalo. The sky was alive with flashes of light exploding, one after another beneath the huge storm clouds that swept down on them.
“Dismount,” he called, straining over the wind now.
Lucie did not argue, but did exactly as he asked. Before he could say so, she had the saddle uncinched and was dragging it and the blanket down. He had chosen a small depression in the earth, one that sloped slightly to the east. It was not the high spot, but not so low as to fill with water. He hobbled the horses tightly, so they could not escape, and then moved Lucie away from the taller animals. The horses’ eyes rolled white and they reared up in fear, but they could not bolt with the tethers joining their front feet. Instead they crow-hopped about in restless motions that only assured Sky that they were in for a terrible storm.
Lucie followed carrying her bundle. The wind was so strong it lifted her braid. He worried for a moment that the thunderbirds were swirling in a whirlwind, but such storms usually came from the south. When they were well away from the horses he stopped. Lucie sank to her knees, just as any Sioux woman would do, and waited.
He crouched beside her.
She leaned forward to speak. “This will be bad.”
He nodded and looped his arm about her. The skin on the back of her neck was cold.
“Do you want your blanket?” he asked.
She shook her head and clutched her bundle to her chest. “I’ll try to keep it dry.”
It would be better to have a mostly damp blanket after the storm than a soaking wet one. So rather than drape herself in wool, she would drape herself around the folded bundle and hope the water did not pool beneath her. Sky reached in his bag and drew out one old oilskin duster and dragged it on. Then he pulled Lucie before him, nestling her between his legs, and sat with his back to the wind.
Her heat warmed his chest and belly. He wrapped his arms about her and held tight until she stopped shivering. Gradually she relaxed and sank deeper against him. The wind buffeted his back, throwing his hair across his face. Stinging pellets of ice beat against his exposed neck and head. He rested his chin on Lucie’s wavy hair, closed his eyes and waited.
Chapter Eight
Lucie did not notice the moment when the hail changed to sleet, but she was certain when the sleet became rain, pouring down in torrential sheets. Sky remained fixed to the earth like a boulder, her shelter from this raging torrent that flattened the grass all about them.
She could no longer see the horses. The lightning continued to flash. She counted as her father had taught her.
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three…”
The crack and boom vibrated through her chest. Less than a half mile away now. Her boulder moved, bringing her down to the wet grass as he opened his slicker over her. He lay half on top of her, pressing her to the earth as the rain beat against her legs. But Sky’s body protected her head, torso and much of her upper legs. Not that she wasn’t wet—she was—but she was warm, too.
They stayed down as the electrical storm crashed about them. Sky flinched only at one strike. It was not the closest, but it did sound different, as if connected to a cannon blast. She felt his chest vibrate and knew he spoke, but she could hear nothing past the caterwaul of the storm raging above them.
Gradually, Lucie began to count again. When she could consistently reach six Mississippi, Sky moved off of her and rolled to his feet. Lucie rose more slowly, weighed down by sodden petticoats and her heavy wool dress. He offered his hand and drew her up.
Sky was whistling now, not the ordinary come-here whistle but the perfect imitation of a male oriole. He stopped and then began again. She listened when he paused but heard nothing.
Was he calling his horse?
He cocked his head and set off at a quick trot. Lucie lifted her saturated hem and hurried behind. Wet petticoats stuck to her legs. She missed her buckskin dress that was naturally resistant to rain.
Sky disappeared into the night for a moment, but she hurried on. She could see him now, silhouetted by the flashes of retreating lightning and then she saw the horse. It was down on its side kicking. Somehow it had managed to get one rear foot stuck between the two front ones. Sky reached the beast and rested a hand on its neck. The horse stilled. Sky cut the hobble. Falcon rolled up and shook his head so furiously its mane flew up and down. Sky laughed and stroked the creature’s wet hide.
His horse, then. She glanced about. Where was hers?
It could not have gone far. Sky was obviously thinking the same thing because he was also craning his neck, this way and that.
“Where is she?” called Lucie.
Sky walked up the small hill. Sky began a string of spectacular curses in Lakota as he charged out of sight.
When she reached the hilltop she saw her mount, still and sodden, her neck stretched at an unnatural angle, as if she had died in some horrible contortion of agony. Sky knelt beside the creature, pressing an ear to her chest. By the time Lucie arrived he was already standing.
“Is she?”
Her answer came from Sky’s mount when he moved within ten feet of the other horse before shrieking a wild whinny and galloping off.
“Lucky it didn’t kill Ceta, too. Maybe he was down when that bolt hit.” He glanced at her. “Don’t know why the heavens would want us both on one horse, but that’s the way it will be, I guess.”
It was one thing to be pressed up against Sky while lying facedown in the mud, quite another to rest, cradled in his arms while riding horseback. She thought of the night he took her from her room and her stomach began to jump. Then memories of another warrior intruded. Eagle Dancer used to carry her, sometimes, on his horse, but on
ly when no one could see them. It was wrong for a warrior to carry a woman. His hands must be full with weapons to defend his people. But he had broken convention for her and she recalled that his horse had been fast as the wind. It was an intimate act, riding so close that you could feel the other’s warm breath, hear the beating of your heart and his.
“Will you eat horse meat?” he asked.
There was a time when she would have eaten anything. It was not so long ago that she had forgotten. Food was to be savored and cherished, for it was not always provided.
“I will,” she said, hardening herself for what he would do.
Lucie moved forward, seeing the black hole now, in the horse’s haunches. It looked as if someone had taken a spear and stabbed it, but there was no blood, only blackened flesh. She leaned close enough to touch her mount. The stench of scorched hair surrounded her.
“Lightning came out her hoof. See?”
Lucie saw nothing unusual. She leaned closer.
Sky pointed behind her. “Shoe’s gone. Lightning likes metal.”
Sure enough, the shoe was missing, while all three others were in place.
“Poor thing.”
Sky unsheathed his hunting knife and lifted it to the heavens offering a prayer of thanks for the nourishment the horse would furnish. Lucie bowed her head and prayed, as well.
She found herself using the old words, the ones Eagle Dancer had taught her. She heard his voice on the wind, chanting as Sky thanked this four-legged one for carrying her and giving this final gift. When Lucie opened her eyes, Sky was already at work. His movements were quick and efficient. This man knew how to use a knife and knew anatomy. He gathered the liver and then a fine strip of red meat from the haunch. He bundled the meat in long grass and carried it to his horse.
“We have to go, before the wolves find this kill. They’ll smell the blood now. When we are away, we’ll stop and change.”
He saddled Falcon and swept up into the saddle, offering his hand to her and tugging her up before him. She sat half across the saddle horn and half in his lap, clutching her bundle before her and shivering. It was a miserable ride over the wet grass. He kept on until the stars reappeared. She did not know his destination. She only knew she could not rest for the cold wet clothing and the chattering of her teeth. She thought back, recalling a time when she had been colder, in her light summer dress, then torn and ragged.
When you are my wife, I will give you the best of hides to make a dress and wolf furs for a cloak.
Eagle Dancer had kept every promise. But she had not kept hers. She had not been a good wife. She had wanted to run. He knew it and so he watched her always. Now she was running again, only this time she was running to him. How had it happened, this change of heart? How could she feel this ache and worry over his safety, while at the same time, dread seeing him again?
Did she dread this reunion because of fear of what he might say or do or did the trepidation grow from guilt at leaving him, when she knew he loved her with his whole open heart? His love was possessive and selfish and generous and kind. She didn’t understand him. She didn’t understand herself. Lucie wrapped her arms more tightly about her waist and waited. Waited for the ride to end, waited for the warmth of the morning light, waited for answers to questions she could not even form in her tired mind.
At last they reached a grove of trees, dark against the prairie. She might find dry wood there in the dead branches that still clung to the trees. Falcon stopped and Sky slid from the saddle, dropping the reins. He reached for her. She clutched at his shoulders as his hands encircled her waist. She floated through the air for a moment like the white fluff released from the flowers of the cottonwood. Then her feet touched the earth.
He did not release her. She glanced up at him and found an expression she recognized, for she had seen it often enough in the face of Eagle Dancer. It was a look of possession.
She was so startled that her instinct was to flee. Had she again fallen into the hands of a man who would not let her go? She stepped back and his grip tightened so that his fingers bit into her skin.
“Sky?”
Sky’s instinct was to hold her, but the look of fear on Lucie’s face struck him like a slap. The cold and the accident gave him a right to wrap his arms about her as they rode over the prairie and he had taken full advantage. Breathed in her scent, nestling her close, warming her with his body—her proximity made him entertain wild notions. But the fear in her eyes struck him like a slap.
He had to let her go. He knew it, yet his hands still gripped her. He had not expected this battle within him to come to the surface. But she had seen it, hadn’t she?
“Let me go, now,” she urged.
He didn’t.
She placed her hands on his wrists and pushed, urging him to release her. He relaxed his fingers and she slipped from his grasp.
Lucie stepped quickly away, escaping him as she had her husband. “I’m going to gather wood.”
A moment later he heard the crack and snap of branches being torn from the trees.
Sky unsaddled Ceta and led him to the spring. There he removed the bridle, leaving his stallion as the Great Spirit had made him. He did not worry over his friend disappearing. Falcon stayed because he wanted to, not because he was made to. He glanced into the darkness in the direction Lucie had vanished. That was how a real marriage must be. Both parties agreed to stay. Why did Eagle Dancer, who was so wise in so many ways, fail to see that?
Sky found Lucie arranging firewood. She had torn the inner bark into paper-thin strips, encouraging the fibrous hairs away from the core. These delicate threads would take a spark and create the ember that would light their fire.
“I didn’t bring my flint,” she said, looking up at him.
“You still have it?”
She hesitated and then nodded. “Yes.”
That information warmed him. He retrieved the sharp-angled stone and used the blade of his knife to create a shower of sparks. Eventually a few caught. Then he blew, carefully coaxing the fire to appear. Once he had a flame, he fed it the twigs that Lucie handed him. When the fire caught, they both sat back to exchange expressions of gratification.
“That’s a welcome sight.”
Sky nodded. “Did your clothing stay dry?”
She retrieved her bundle and found her things only damp. “Mostly.”
Sky knew it was more the shield of their bodies than the wool’s natural water repulsion that protected her things. She stepped away from the fire to change. Sky did not need any such privacy. He stood and stripped out of his shirt and moccasins. Then he peeled out of his clammy dungarees and tossed them aside. Had he been alone he would have stood beside the fire to warm up before dressing. But instead he went to his saddlebag and drew out a green, three-point Hudson Bay blanket and looped it about his waist. Then he squatted by the fire to await her reappearance. Anticipation tugged inside him, tight as the head of a drum. Was she standing naked out there? His mind furnished images of her in cotton underthings, made transparent by the rain.
“Lucie? You there?”
He heard a hiss. “Don’t you dare come over here.”
Sky laughed and stared in the direction of her voice, listening to the rustle and the mumbling that he could almost make out. At last, she emerged from the night, fully dressed in a dark skirt, white blouse and a shawl draped about her shoulders, carrying her moccasins. Her feet were bare and her long wet hair flowed over her shoulders like a waterfall soaking the back of her blouse.
She stopped at the sight of him. “Please tell me you are wearing trousers.”
“Only got but one pair.” He thumbed at the denim now draped over a bush and dripping copious amounts of water onto the soggy ground. “Got a breechcloth, though. If you’re still cold, I can give you this blanket. It’s mostly dry.”
He stood and reached for the roll of scratchy wool that encircled his waist. Lucie shielded her eyes.
“No! That’s quite all ri
ght.” She placed her moccasins by the fire and then retrieved her wet things, stretching them out over branches and brush. When she was done she fidgeted with her wet hair, which showed its natural proclivity to wave.
“I make you nervous?”
He didn’t talk much to women, but when he did he found them to rarely answer a question directly.
“Exceedingly,” she said.
He smiled. “Straight as the shaft of an arrow.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come sit by the fire, Lucie. I won’t bite you.”
She did, but chose to stay as far from him as she could without sitting in the smoke.
“You want to eat again?”
She shook her head. “I’m tired.”
He glanced up. The violent storm had passed. But the storm was still here, rolling inside him every time he got near her. Sky stared up at the stars, appearing now between the sweeping clouds. “Going to be a cold night.”
“Mr. Fox, if you think I will come crawling over there and beg you to hold me, you are much mistaken. My parents raised me better than that.”
“And if you think I’m going to let you sit up all night shivering, you’re mistaken, as well. My parents raised me better than that, too.”
He returned to his bags and exchanged the blanket for his breechcloth. He traveled light and had no buffalo robe, but he did have the slicker.
He folded her damp blanket for a mat, thinking it would make her more comfortable. Then he motioned to her. She remained shivering where she was.
He frowned. “If you don’t come over here, I’ll come and get you.”
“No, thank you.”
“Not a request, Lucie.”
She glared. “I won’t be ordered about.”
Like a slave, he thought. The woman had good reason to be cautious of possessive men. He tried reason, but was disturbed by his eagerness to convince her. “You’re cold.”
“You’ll take advantage of me.”
“I’d sooner cut off my own hand than offend you.”
Lucie’s brows lifted in surprise at that.
“I was sent to retrieve you. Do you think I would risk our friendship for a woman?”