Stone Heart's Woman

by Velda Brotherton

  He remained unmoving.

  It was hard to know what to do. She’d only been gone a short while, awakening to find the night had passed, and trudging out into the snow to explore. How had he gotten here? Where did he come from?

  His presence frightened her so she felt a fool for even thinking of helping him. But suppose she could get him to take her out of here? Not in his present condition, of course, but after he recovered from whatever was wrong with him. He’d probably as soon slit her throat as give her a helping hand, but there were few choices left to her.

  In the hopes he would come to on his own, she studied him for a long time and decided to take his knife before he awoke. Probably not a great idea because he was so much bigger than her, but in his condition, she might be able to hold him off with it. Every nerve tingled, warned her to flee, run away from this dreadful hole and the wounded savage who looked white but certainly didn’t act it. But where would she go? And come nightfall, should she not find shelter, she would probably freeze to death.

  No, she would remain here. Take his knife, maybe even tie him up if she could find something with which to do it. When he came around she would show him that she was in charge. If he didn’t agree, she would force him to leave, no matter his condition. The only way to survive in this harsh place was to look after yourself.

  Silently, she crept close to the inert form. The way he had fallen, his body covered the knife, and she would have to turn him over to get it. The moment her fingers brushed his flesh, a shudder of misgiving swept through her. As if he had only become human with the touch. His braid tickled her knee and she touched it in wonder. Where had he come from, this fair-haired warrior dressed in beaded skins with features as stoic and chiseled as any Indian? She forced herself back to the task at hand. She tried to roll him over, but he didn’t budge. He was heavy, his muscles iron hard beneath the hide coat he wore. Bracing herself, she heaved again, and he rolled over to sprawl face up. Moving him disturbed some pans that had tumbled off the shelf and they rattled over his groans, sending shivers up her spine.

  She noticed the stains on his buckskins, at his waist and on one leg. Black like dried blood. He was hurt.

  Suppose she awoke him? The knife’s bone handle stuck out of the leather scabbard and she yanked it free. His hand slapped over hers, quick as a snake’s strike, grip popping the bones in her fingers. Crying out, she tried to pull free, but despite his injuries, he had no trouble holding her fast.

  Silver eyes glittered in anger. “You would kill me?”

  Amazed he spoke her tongue, she shook her head, pushed at him with her free hand. “No. I only wanted...I didn’t want...to be sent away into the cold. If...if I had the knife...Turn me loose.” She kicked both feet against him and tried to shove free. “You...you speak English.”

  He grunted from the blows, his features hardening, but he did not let go. “You wish to send me away into the cold. Is that the way of it, white man’s whore?”

  The words slammed into her, and she dodged as if they were chunks of rock. The heat of tears clogged her throat and burned her eyes. She brushed them away. What did it matter what this heathen savage thought? She knew who she was. He did not.

  Nevertheless, the accusation brought back memories of the good women of Benson, and their dreadful treatment when all she was trying to do was earn enough money to go home. And she had never been a whore. Never.

  Unbidden moisture trailed down her cheeks, causing him to stare at her. A tiny frown of puzzlement furrowed a crease above his finely chiseled nose.

  Neither said anything for a long silent moment and, though his grip eased, he didn’t let go her wrist. His palm felt hot and dry, little beads of moisture stood out above his lip and across his forehead, and he had an unnatural, flushed look.

  “You are ill.” She ventured into the sounds of their heavy breathing. “Why did you pretend you could not speak English?”

  Abruptly he released her hand and curled one arm over his eyes. He could only ask her help by speaking with her, but he could hardly bear to look at her when he did. It was like betraying himself and his people.

  “I need the wounds cleaned, the white man’s lead dug out.”

  “Well, I’ve never taken out a bullet. I wouldn’t know how.”

  “I can do it myself, but I need hot water. Melt some snow.”

  Without realizing it, she had begun to carry on a civilized conversation with this very uncivilized man. And he responded in kind.

  He went on in a voice that rasped with weariness. “It is the only way either of us will survive.”

  That was all he seemed capable of saying, and she thought about his words for only the briefest instant before fetching two of the battered pots that had tumbled from the shelves.

  He would help her, he as much as said so.

  Even though her decision had been made she couldn’t help thinking that once he grew strong he would probably kill her or worse. If they remained together until they escaped this dreadful situation, she could never dare turn her back on him. If she ever trusted another man again, it certainly wouldn’t be this half-wild savage.

  He didn’t speak while she went about the tedious business of melting snow, but sat cross-legged and watched her every move.

  “Put some of those chips in the fire before it goes out,” he told her.

  Puzzled, she glanced where he indicated. “I don’t...is that how you built the fire? I thought they’d been keeping stock in here. Are you burning that cow dung?”

  A ragged chuckle bubbled from his throat. “Buffalo chips. They dry out in the sun. Make a hot fire. Herds migrate through here.” The staccato explanation appeared to exhaust him.

  Delicately, she threw a few chips in the fire, wiping her hands on the buffalo coat. What a disgusting thing.

  His gaze followed her in studious silence while she shoved pans into the flames, and fetched mounds of snow to replace what had turned to liquid in the heat. It was eerie being in the small room with this frightening man and acting as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. After a while the ponderous buffalo coat dragged at her until she could not do the work. If she shrugged it off it would mean parading back and forth in front of him in what was left of her dress. A rather tattered low-cut blue sequined affair designed to attract attention rather than serve as practical clothing, it hadn’t worn well through her adventures in Benson and later with Wiley. The condition of the dress or its skimpiness probably didn’t matter, for this man apparently had little interest in her body, for he continued to glare as if measuring her for a death shroud.

  Yet the way he stared at her made her nervous. She readjusted the coat around her shoulders and knelt near the fire. When she stood, the cumbersome wrap fell to the floor. She glanced from Stone Heart to her own near-nakedness, to the shaggy coat, then back at him. His expression did not vary one bit. To heck with him. Not only was the thing uncomfortable in the heat from the fire, it didn’t exactly smell too good. She left it lying in a heap on the floor, like some great dead animal.

  Without warning he yanked the wicked knife out and brandished it. The long blade wavered back and forth in front of him like he might be trying to mesmerize a snake or something. Unable to take her next breath, she imagined her red tresses hanging from his belt, immediately felt a fool when he held the weapon out to her, butt first.

  “Boil the blade. Do you wear an undergarment?”

  His probing gaze sent shivers deep inside her, but she stiffened her spine and tossed the look right back at him. “I most certainly do.”

  “Take it off.”

  “I will not.”

  His glance cut off further protest. “Remove it and bring my bundle here. There in the corner. It has medicines for a poultice. We will have to clean the wounds.”

  “We?”

  Ignoring her question, he removed layers of clothing, peeling the blood-stained shirt away where it had stuck to the wound at his waist. “The lead is there, I can feel it
under the skin.”

  He palpated the flesh in his back. “The leg hurts like the devil, might have nicked the bone.”

  In silence she gazed at his hairless flesh gleaming in the firelight, the coppery skin of his thick forearms and flat belly a sharp contrast to the bruised and bloody hole just above his hip bone.

  He repeated harshly, “My bundle, fetch it,” and shook the knife. “Take it. What are you staring at?”

  Flustered by the demeanor and blunt diction, as if each word were forced from some forbidden place, she did as he asked almost in a stupor. The blade dropped into the simmering water with a hollow thunk, and she glanced at him quickly.

  “Are you sure you can do this?”

  “No, but I must.” He paused, flat gray eyes pinning her in an accusation. “Since you have said you could not.”

  “I didn’t exactly say that. I said I’ve never done it before.”

  “Well, it does not matter. I do not trust you with a knife at my back.” Unlacing the leggings, he tried to get a look at the leg wound, but the buckskin clung tight. “Bring me water to soak this. Then open the bundle of medicines. Move, woman. Are you daft?”

  Daft? Quite possibly. The question fueled her anger. “If you’re Cheyenne why do you talk like a white man? Well, almost, anyway.”

  “I’m working on that,” he muttered and began to take off the shirt.

  For a moment she thought he was going to remove the rest of his clothes right there in front of her. Not sure what to expect next, she kept a wary eye on him while shoving the pot of water within his reach. When she felt for the bundle of herbs her fingers touched a rifle lying in the dark shadow against the wall. Trembling violently, she picked it up, turned and braced herself, legs wide apart. Grunting, she leveled the long barrel at him. The gun was heavier than she’d expected and she could barely support it. The way it wavered she’d never hit him, even at close range. Him sitting there with a bullet in his flesh made her wonder if she wanted to shoot a man who had already been so badly wounded. A man who might be her only way out of this dreadful predicament. He might also kill her.

  Lip curled and silver eyes flashing, he gazed, not at the gun but into her eyes. “It’s not loaded, but shoot if it will make you feel better.”

  His features remained sternly set. Her worst vice had always been a quick temper. It had served her well with Wiley. Now it flared, almost blinding her with rage. She heaved back the thick hammer and pulled the trigger.

  Oh, Mother of God, she hadn’t meant to do that.

  A loud, hollow click shattered her silent dismay. In disbelief she gaped at him. Sitting there, staring at her. Waiting so calmly for her to shoot him. It happened so quickly, so unexpectedly.

  The rifle slid from her grasp. “My word, I could have blown your head off.”

  Without a reply, he let her think about what had happened for a while, and she felt foolishly grateful and even more frightened. Not of him, but of her own willingness to kill this man. This land had truly done things to her. Terrible things.

  “Now I know not to turn my back on you,” he said. “Could we get to work? I will not scalp you just yet.” He gestured at the knife. “I might pass out and you would need to finish this job. Maybe tomorrow when I am some improved. That hair would blaze like fire from my belt. Now, the bundle?”

  Swallowing her indignation, she retrieved the musket and carefully propped it, butt down, against the wall. How stupid to have done such a thing. She knew nothing about guns or how they worked. She’d always thought all you had to do was point, force back the striking hammer, and pull the trigger. Obviously there was more to it than that. Not getting within arm’s reach of him, she set down the heavy pack. He might yet think about what she’d done and take it out on her.

  “Open it,” he said, then calmly poured warm water over the blood-soaked leggings, grimaced and peeled them away from the wound. He made no sound, though it must have hurt something fierce. Blood spilled down his leg. He ignored it and inspected the area with his fingers.

  Working to undo the bundle, she couldn’t take her eyes off him until the knots in the blanket refused to budge and she was forced to concentrate on that.

  “Well, that’s good. There’s an exit wound.” With no hesitation he poured more water over the hole in his leg, held out a hand without looking up.

  She would never have known the pain he was in had it not been for a fine sheen of sweat that broke out along the tight muscles along on his neck.

  And his voice that grated with tension. “The parfleche, there. Open it and lay out those medicines where I can reach them. And give me your undergarment.”

  Leather pouch in hand, she glanced with confusion around the enclosed space.

  “Well?” He raised his head.

  She’d never seen a look like that on anyone’s face. Pent up fury, a revelation of disguised pain flashing through the eyes, and despair so deep even his stern features would hardly contain it.

  “I...I’ve no place to...to take them off.” A need to cry caught her by surprise. This situation was so hopeless.

  “I will close my eyes. Give me those herbs and do it, so I can take care of this.”

  She dropped the pouch beside him, and prepared to flee. Despite his wounds, this man exuded the power and intent of just what she’d called him: a wild man. It wouldn’t surprise her if he lunged at her, cut her throat, and scalped her, all in the instant it would take to think of escaping.

  “Don’t order me about like that. I don’t have to do any of this. You’re a madman, uncivilized and wild.” Even as the defiance escaped her lips, she wanted to take it back.

  “Oh, I am worse than that, lady,” he said softly. “Now would you please take off your britches, or whatever you wear under that...that...” He flung an arm in a wild gesture. “Because if I do not live it’s odds on you will not either. Dammit, there is no talking to you without resorting to the white man’s tongue. It comes back much too easily.”

  At times he sounded almost white, giving her hope. But he wasn’t, and she had to face that. It had been clear from the outset she wouldn’t live through this experience. She only hoped he made it quick.

  “If you do live, I’m sure I won’t,” she said.

  His laugh, anything but amused, sent shudders through her. “You’re a tough one, I’ll give you that.” His shimmering eyes raked her up and down, disdain warring with admiration. “You gonna run or take off your pants? Up to you.”

  Even though she could see he meant business, her legs refused to move. Only her mouth was capable of running, and now she’d angered him. Hugging herself, she could do nothing but wait for whatever he might decide to do. Movement to take off her undergarment simply wouldn’t come. She might as well have been frozen out in that pitiless wind.

  He glanced up from sorting through what looked like bundles of weeds, and stared at her with such evil intensity that she turned her back, lifted the dress and pulled down her drawers, fast so she didn’t have to think. Fast, before he rose up from there and engulfed her in flames. Taking off her drawers was, after all, tamer than what he might have in mind for her later.

  In her business she didn’t wear layers of petticoats; men liked to see the flash of a thigh when she performed. But she did wear cotton drawers and they would have to suffice for his purposes. The corset that shoved her breasts up so they mounded out of the top of the dress, and shredded stockings were all that remained under the dress.

  Without looking into his eyes, she held out the drawers. His warm fingers touched hers and she jerked back. He glanced at her with an unreadable expression that could have melted ice, then set to ripping the undergarment into pieces. Watching the strong fingers tear at her personal clothing sent a river of terror through her, and she gasped in surprise. He might as well have his hands on her, the way it made her feel. A disturbing tremor surged from the pit of her stomach into her breasts and she felt ashamed and vulnerable.

  None of it mattered,
though, for he was sure to kill her as soon as he doctored himself and didn’t need her anymore. She only hoped he made it quick.

  He emptied some water out of the smaller pot, sprinkled the odd smelling herbs into it and worked them around with his fingers. Packing the mess into the leg wound, he used a scrap torn from her drawers to bind it before turning his attention to the hole in his side. This would be more difficult, for he clearly did not have a view of the area where he would have to cut out the lead.

  Tightening her lips, she fetched the pot of water that held the knife and went to him, kneeling and placing the vessel on the floor. She reached to touch the wound, and he grabbed her hand. Almost choking with fear, she yelped and jerked against the vise of his grip. His murderous gaze held her as tightly as did his steel-like fingers. She might as well have stepped into a cage with a wolf. His hot breath washed over her, a scent of wildness that put her in mind of her worst fears. But he wasn’t completely feral and, if she were to live, she must appeal to that hidden man she prayed dwelled deep beneath the animal.

  Without struggling against his grip, she said, “You can’t do this yourself.”

  Her flesh throbbed where he gripped it. In an attempt to soothe him, she laid her other hand over his. “Lie down and let me take care of it.” How surprising that she could sound so confident when inside she was a mass of trembling jelly.

  For several long moments they remained locked together. He tried to let her go, muscles loosening and tightening, could not. She felt so small under his grasp, the bones in her hands like those of birds. She could not hurt him, surely. The contact of their flesh promised otherwise. She could indeed hurt him, but in an entirely different way.

  Though his expression didn’t flicker, he finally nodded, allowed her to help him lie on his side, baring his naked back. The back he feared she might plunge the knife in. For now she had tamed the wolf. Gently she fingered the hot, smooth skin that jerked under her touch.

  He made no sound.

  Taking a deep breath, she steadied the knife, tightened her lips and poked the point into the wound. After a bit of probing she felt an unnatural lump and he twitched, but again, uttered not a murmur.