Stone Heart's Woman

by Velda Brotherton

  “I am not a whore, nor do I goggle, sir.” She hoped not to be forced to hit him with the cruel weapon.

  One look at the expression in his lustful eyes told her it would do no good to protest what he’d said. He believed it as surely as those women. But it appeared she could do nothing about their perceptions that a woman who sang and danced was also a whore.

  His gloved hand shot out, and she jerked away, retreated till the tailgate pressed against her legs. Big and strong as he was, if he got hold of her, all would be lost.

  “Leave me be. Go home to your wife.”

  “She ain’t as purty as you. Besides, I got me four kids sleeping in the same room.”

  “Shame on you, you filthy man, for what you’re thinking. And with a family to care for.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Drooling, he advanced on her, eyes glazing in anticipation.

  There was no place to go but over the side, and he’d catch up to her sure as the world. With a mighty heave she swung the adz upward, just like her brother Cormac had taught her. If Wiley hadn’t managed to deflect the blow the thick blade would have buried itself deep in his throat. As it was, one side of the heavy iron head caught him across the jaw with a solid thunk. He made no sound as he fell backward into the seat.

  “Oh, God, oh, Mother of God,” she whispered, and dropped the evil thing.

  She hadn’t meant to kill him. What could she do now?

  He moaned and stirred, driving both relief and panic through her. Thank God he was alive. She couldn’t go back to Benson, but she could send him there. She didn’t want him to freeze to death out here, just to go away and leave her be.

  Carefully she crawled out of the wagon bed, her feet crunching in the churned ruts. The reins were stiff and difficult to unwind from the brake handle, but she finally loosened them, released the brake and went to the team’s head. Leading them in a circle she turned the wagon back toward town, slipping and sliding in the button-up shoes. With a hard smack to the flank of the lead animal, she sent the rig off down the road, carrying its unconscious passenger. Without looking back, she started in the other direction, with no idea where she was going.

  Many times during that day she wished she’d tossed the unconscious man out in the snow and taken the wagon. Inventing dreadful fates for him kept her staggering along the road while the cold whipped at her face. That subject exhausted, she kept going by damning Stephan for bringing her to this terrible place and leaving her like an unwanted piece of furniture. How could he have done such a thing when only weeks earlier he’d sworn his undying love? Vowed to marry and protect her, too. Back in Saint Louis, sitting in the swing on the front porch, arm around her, smiling so innocently when Mama brought them lemonade. What a terrible joke. And what was even worse, she’d believed him. At her age, she should have known better. But that was precisely why she’d grabbed at the offer. Her thirtieth birthday bore down on her like a circling buzzard after carrion, dooming her to spinsterhood. No man to love her, no children to comfort her.

  Occasionally she glanced over her shoulder, but there was nothing back there. Even the town of Benson had disappeared. Would someone come after her when the wagon arrived in town with its cargo? What if Lawson died? Would she be arrested and hanged? She probably ought to get off the road, but the idea of lighting out through piled drifts of snow held no appeal.

  Overhead, the sky darkened, and spits of snow stung her exposed hands and face. Along the western horizon remnants of the dying sun purpled a gunmetal sky. Silhouetted against it perched a small house, nearly covered by a blanket of snow. Heart kicking at her ribs, she studied the soddie’s black hulk. It wasn’t quite dark enough for lamps to be lit, but it was quickly getting that way. No tracks in the snow to show someone had come or gone. And the wind blew so hard there was no way of telling if smoke came from the chimney.

  No matter, this was shelter. For a while longer, she stared at the house, afraid it would disappear. But it was real, and good enough reason for leaving the road. Taking a deep breath and drawing the coat close, she started across the desolate, snow-covered plain. The longer she walked the farther away the house appeared against the darkening sky.

  A bank of angry clouds swallowed the last of the light, and she staggered, almost fell. Drifts of deep snow were frozen and slippery, and she fought her way over or around each in turn. Ahead, the cabin held out its promise of shelter, but she was no longer sure she would make it. Legs numbed by the bitter cold, she dragged one foot after the other. Icy jags tore at her bare flesh like the fangs of wolves.

  Damn the good women of Benson for tossing her out into the bitter January cold to freeze to death. She thought of dropping to the ground, letting the buffalo coat cover her, and waiting for the end to come. She’d be there come spring, all stiff and blue as the very sky above. And wouldn’t that please those old biddies?

  Before she’d halved the distance to the cabin, the howling wind thickened with icy pellets and fat flakes. If she didn’t reach shelter soon she would certainly die out here. The shack remained just out of reach as if teasing her with salvation. The high button shoes with their cumbersome heels were nothing but trouble, worse in the snow, for they broke through the frozen crust with every step. She didn’t dare take them off, but struggled on, falling, then rising only to fall again.

  Climbing once more to her feet, she gazed around frantically. Only darkness. Where was the cabin? Gone. She turned, turned again. Dear God in heaven, she must have passed it by. Terror took her in its deathly grip. She was going to die. Head bent low, she forced one numb foot ahead of the other, unwilling to give up until she could no longer even crawl.

  Off to her right a moon the color of ice rose above the desolate horizon and pointed across the treeless plain, lighting the cabin with its silvery fingers as if pointing out her refuge. Otherwise she would have continued to walk on into oblivion, for she had gone past the place and was headed away. Frozen on the plains of Nebraska, her body might never have been recovered. Her family would never have known what had become of her. Newfound energy sent her stumbling the last few feet, the brutal, incessant wind buffeting her up onto the porch and through the open doorway. She used the last of her strength to shove the door closed, leaned against it gasping at air that fired her lungs. The wind howled mournfully, battered and beat at the walls, as if furious to have lost her.

  It was cold inside, but not like out there in that blasted gale. Dropping to her knees, she huddled in the total darkness and thanked God for bringing her this far. With each breath pain sliced through her lungs, but she was safe. At least for the moment. It was easy to see no one lived here, for the place was abandoned.

  Exhausted, she curled up within the coat and slept, cozy in the shaggy fur that had once warmed the animal from which it came.

  ****

  Stone Heart awoke shivering, cold to the marrow of his bones. Winter sunlight probed with tentative fingers at the elk-skin under which he huddled. He must move on. Though he struggled until a cold sweat covered his brow, he could not gain his feet. Scanning the unbroken prairie, he spotted an unnatural shape in the distance. It appeared to be a soddie or cabin, of the kind white settlers used. No smoke came from the chimney. For a long while he kept watch, saw neither man nor beast. He would seek shelter and if he found someone there, he would kill them.

  Grinding his teeth, he wobbled to hands and knees and began the journey. Soon, he did not have the strength to crawl and drag the heavy bundle, but couldn’t think of leaving it behind. His wounds ached, his palms wore raw, his thighs and upper arms trembled violently and would no longer hold him off the ground. He collapsed, lay in the snow, breathing heavily, smelling blood, his own and that of those he had robbed. He stared blearily at the cabin as if doing so could make it move closer. But it remained, taunted him as the sun slipped lower in the sky to darken its roof and reveal a door to one side. A door through which he must somehow manage to pass if he were to survive another night.

  If h
e could not crawl then he would creep along on his belly like a snake. One knee dragged forward to shove, then the other, arms and hands numb and unfeeling, pulling him along, inch by inch, fighting to keep the heavy parfleche and supplies because to leave them meant sure death. The torturous trip would take a long time. Perhaps too long.

  Memories of the battleground where the soldiers from Fort Robinson had slaughtered the pitiful small band of Cheyenne kept him moving forward. He would never forget this day nor what it had cost the Cheyenne. All his people wanted was to take their pitiful remnants home, home to the northern plains where the wind whispered of their heritage and the skies smiled with pleasure upon the land. This battle on a remote creek in Nebraska was not the first waged with the white man who would keep them on the reservation or murder them all. It must be the last.

  After what seemed forever, he battered his way through the door, squatted in front of a mud-and-straw fireplace. Someone had piled dried buffalo chips in a corner, and he rested only moments before setting about building a fire. Fingers trembled weakly so he could hardly strike steel against stone or blow the smoking embers to life. Miraculously, he finally dozed in the blessed warmth of crackling flames.

  A shuffling of feet, movement of some kind, startled him fully awake. He had no idea how long he had slept, but someone was coming. He tilted his head and listened. Not an animal, nor a big man. Someone small, weary. Even with his wounds, he would have no trouble overpowering this one and slitting its throat. The musket lay in the dark corner, for he had not yet loaded it. He hoped this was a white man approaching, for he desperately desired to count coup, repay the slaughter of the day before. Ignoring the lance of pain, he crept toward the door, waited out of sight until his prey entered. The only light filtered into the gloom through that opening, and he could be upon the enemy without ever being seen.

  The fur-shrouded figure that stepped into sight radiated fire about its head, rays of sun brilliant in long strands of tangled red hair. Already in motion, his arm clamped about its throat, cut off a high scream.

  A woman. A white woman.

  The robe slipped from her shoulders when she clawed the air and kicked furiously with both feet, her full weight swinging on his forearm. One pointed boot toe struck his shin, another cracked his knee painfully. Gritting his teeth against passing out, he leaned against the wall and hung on, pressed the blade of his knife hard against her midsection.

  Hissed in her ear, “Stop fighting or I’ll gut you.”

  Chapter Two

  Gutting the intruder proved more difficult than Stone Heart expected. Weary as if he swam in thick mud, he could barely fight his own imminent collapse and hang on to the hissing wildcat encased in the enormous buffalo coat.

  “Let me go, heathen.”

  No wonder she didn’t understand him, he’d spoken in his native tongue and she was definitely white. What was a white woman doing out here?

  The question scarcely registered before strong fingers clawed at his arm. Both legs swung free so he supported her full weight. She wiggled and kicked madly.

  He could do nothing but release her in order to remain on his feet. Head reeling, he crouched as if to attack, knife circling about in front of him.

  In the gloom, his prey emerged from the shaggy buffalo coat. Terrified green eyes reflected the stingy sun’s rays; masses of red hair draped over pale shoulders and back. Full breasts swelled from a torn, fancy dress. His mind, slowed by the cold and exhaustion, at last grasped the situation fully. This was no bear nor man, no threat of any kind, as he had first thought, but simply a small, ill-dressed, creamy-skinned woman. By the look of her clothes, a white man’s fancy woman.

  How in thunder did she get out here?

  He knew all about such women who sold their bodies to men for whom they cared nothing. This one had plenty of body to sell, but with his vision fading he had little strength to admire it. Her mouth worked and she rubbed at her throat. He must be losing his hearing as well.

  Finding her voice she screeched long and loud, soon clearing up that misconception. One arm thrust forward to ward him off, she stumbled backward, thunked into the dirt wall. Debris rained from the sod ceiling, dust motes floated in bars of thin winter light, clogged his nose and burned his eyes. Unable to move or make a sound, he widened his stance in an effort to remain on his feet. Smothering the wail, she hunched in the corner, facing him like a cornered rabbit, breathing heavily, making no other sound.

  Cold air through the gaping door invaded the small, warm space and he quickly closed it, then turned back to the problem at hand. The white soul in him did not want to kill this poor terrified creature who had nothing to do with the slaughter of the Beautiful People. But he could not tell her so without breaking his vow to never let the words of his hated father’s people cross his lips again. It didn’t matter, though. From the look of her she wouldn’t believe him, no matter what language he spoke. Overcome by pain and dizziness, his knees buckled under him and he fell to a sitting position.

  For a terrified moment Aiden stared at the savage who had fallen on his butt when she fully expected him to scalp her. Warmth washed over her. He’d built a fire and she should be grateful, but was too frightened.

  From his position on the floor, he circled the knife in a gesture that was plain. If he could rise from there he would cut her open.

  Warily, she slid her gaze from him to the flames and back again, inched toward the coat, eyes aimed into his, pointing with a finger that trembled. “Don’t touch me. Stay right where you are.”

  Foolish woman. She spoke as if he were her prisoner, as if she held a weapon on him, rather than the other way around. He waved the knife, signaling that he would allow her to remain and share the heat. Never mind that he couldn’t prevent it.

  For a moment she didn’t say anything, but concentrated on wrapping up in the coat, hugged it close to cover the exposed ivory flesh.

  “Is this your place? When I arrived no one was here.” She glanced at the flames again, as if to assure herself they continued to burn. “Who are you and where did you come from?”

  She was either very brave or very stupid to face him in such a way and chatter on like a magpie. Glaring, he almost told her his white name, but in the end relented to her earlier perceptions that he was a savage. He had not been white since he had joined the Cheyenne in their battle to return home. Last fall, that was. The moon of the turning leaves.

  It was annoying, listening to her speak and not answering. He wanted to tell her how close she was to dying. Threaten her. Pay her back for what the white man had done. Already, by allowing her to live, he’d broken his vow to kill every white man, woman, and child. He did not want to break another, so he clamped his lips over any reply he might have made.

  Warily, she inched past him, dropped to the floor near the fire and wrapped up in the coat so he could see nothing but her face and that mass of hair that shimmered in the dancing light.

  “Sit right there, just don’t come near me.” Her voice wavered and broke, but she lifted her chin and met his stern gaze. “I’ve never seen an Indian with golden hair.”

  Despite her attempt at calm, he could tell he had frightened her badly, even though he hadn’t the energy to wrestle a rabbit. Pain from the wound in his thigh radiated down his leg and the muscles along his side bunched in agony. Still he was very good at covering up. He slipped the knife into the scabbard at his waist to show her he meant no harm and felt himself drifting off.

  She touched a tangled lock of hair and glared at him. “I guess if you were going to kill me or...or scalp me you’d have already done it,” she said, voice small and hopeful.

  “Be quiet,” he told her in Cheyenne, slapping three fingers over his lips to illustrate.

  Warmth from the fire made him sleepy, and he wanted only to wrap up in the elk skin.

  Leaning closer, she peered at him. “I guess you just told me to shut up.”

  Brave little thing, but too mouthy. He let ou
t a sigh. If he had the strength he would gag her.

  The wounds continued to throb. If he were to live, he had to clean them and not lie here sleeping while their poison invaded his body. In the light from the fire he surveyed the small, square room. Shelves on the far wall held an odd assortment that he couldn’t make out. Perhaps there would be a vessel in which he could melt snow, for his first need was hot water.

  Gathering his feet under him, he tried to rise, and she cried out, scrabbling backward. He stumbled to his knees, grunted angrily, and tried again. Getting to his feet was akin to trying to climb a mountain slippery with ice while someone stuck spears in his flesh.

  “What...what is it? You’re hurt.” Though she sounded concerned, she did not approach, but merely watched him like an antelope watches a cougar.

  Determined not to fail in this simple task, he shot her a dark look and heaved himself upright. Grunting against blacking out, waving like a flag in a brisk wind, he stumbled toward the shelves, hands grappling and knocking things all over the place. He went to his knees with a thud, and the last few items fell on him where he knelt, trembling with rage and helplessness. Despite struggling with all his might to hold on, he crumpled to the floor and passed into a world of darkness.

  For a long while Aiden studied the savage whose fair, greasy hair had bright red ribbons intricately braided through it. He lay very still in a shadowy heap on the far side of the small room, no more than a few feet from her, his ragged breathing the only sign of life. After several minutes, when he hadn’t moved or made a sound, she ventured close enough to reach out and poke him with one finger. No reaction. His feral smell assailed her nostrils, the scent of wild game and smoke and male sweat. Tentatively, she poked him again, harder. His body shifted, he grunted, and she dodged backward, almost falling into the fireplace.

  “Hey, you. Hey,” she yelled, but didn’t touch him again.