Stone Heart's Woman

by Velda Brotherton

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes.” He hissed through gritted teeth.

  With deep misgivings she shivered down to her toes, eyed the golden flesh which she would have to slit open.

  “Dear God, help me,” she whispered.

  “Please do,” he echoed. “Do it quick. Just cut me open and pop the thing out. Don’t go poking around like some weak little girl.”

  “Shut up and let me do this. Or, you can try for yourself.”

  “Do it.”

  The knife handle felt smooth and deadly in her grip. She might kill him at this moment and be done with it. The shining blade trembled as she touched it to his vulnerable flesh.

  Chapter Three

  The swollen, bruised skin around the bullet hole twitched under the knife blade. Though Aiden briefly entertained plunging the knife deep into him before he could do her in, she knew at that moment that she couldn’t kill this man. It simply wasn’t in her. She tried thinking of all the scalps he’d probably taken, the many deaths he was probably responsible for, and still couldn’t do it. The only thing she could do was cut out the chunk of lead and hope he would be grateful enough to let her out of here alive.

  Staring at the weapon pressed into his flesh, she gritted her teeth and tried to cut deeper. But nothing happened. How hard could it be? Skin tore easily. Just slice it like a piece of fat back. Be quick. It was only meat, after all. She wiped her eyes, bit her lip, and pushed. A thin trickle of blood, like a delicate tear, ran from the wound.

  “What are you waiting for? Go ahead, get it done,” he gasped.

  Her hand jerked and the blade went deeper.

  He grunted, braced himself. “Can you do this or not?” His voice strained, the words spat through clenched teeth.

  “I can, I can.” Okay, it’s only a piece of meat, just cut out the bullet. Do it, now.

  And she did, shuddering at the feel of flesh parting under the blade and the sight of blood pouring. He stiffened and groaned. Gnawing her lower lip, she ignored him and continued to work until the tip of the knife touched the lead.

  A low guttural noise rolled from deep in his throat, tendons rippled along his neck, but he didn’t budge or cry out.

  With a bit of pressure it ought to pop right out. But it didn’t, and so she pried the stubborn chunk of lead loose and slipped it out the opening, caught it in the palm of her hand. Blood from the fresh cut pooled on the dirt floor, then soaked away. For one relieved moment, she leaned back onto her heels and wiped her brow with the back of the clenched fist that held the gory thing.

  She had done it. Now she had to stop the bleeding.

  Taking deep breaths, he waited for his vision to clear. The woman’s gentle touch eased the sharp pain that had threatened to drive him into a darker world, and he relaxed while she worked.

  After cleaning the gash, she leaned forward to dress the entry wound. The tips of her fingers left tiny cold dots on his skin. A lock of coppery hair drifted onto his bare stomach. Her nearness caused a pleasant though strange sensation, one that he dare not enjoy too much. No woman had ever touched him in such a way. His mother’s loving care had been taken from him when he was sent off to school. Snatched from the care of the Cheyenne to take advantage of his white heritage, he was told.

  “If we understand the ways of the white man, we can learn to live in peace with them,” his grandfather had said. What a rotten joke that had been.

  The sound of her voice interrupted his musings.

  “Tell me how to make the poultice so we can draw out the poison.”

  When he tried to reply, his voice rasped and he cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure if his weakness was a reaction to her digging around in him with a knife, or his frustration at failing to overpower her. Whatever it was, it made him angry with both himself and her.

  “There...in...the...water...do...what...I...did.” His broken words came between deep breaths while he struggled to put away the burning pain.

  While she worked, he drifted beyond the agony to concentrate on the gentleness of her small hand packing the medicines front and back into the wounds. Wisps of her warm breath flowed over his skin. Drifting off, he was surprised when he regained himself some time later to find the cabin empty.

  He couldn’t hear or see her, didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. It would be best if she had gone, yet for some inexplicable reason her abandonment angered him. From outside he heard the rattle and bang of pans. She hadn’t gone after all. He let out a breath, amazed that it mattered what she did. After a moment, she returned, touched his forehead with the back of her hand, then covered him with her buffalo coat, tucking it snugly around his neck as if he were a child.

  “Sleep is best now, you’ll heal sooner. I’ll keep the fire going.” No longer afraid, she spoke gently in a soothing tone. “I wish I knew your name.”

  Warm and groggy, he whispered his name, then fell away from the lulling of her voice.

  He awoke once in the dark of night, listened to the sharp silence of winter. The room was pitch black. The fire had died and the air was cold. Without being able to see outside, he could imagine that a storm was upon them, filling the night sky with snow-laden clouds. Listening intently, he finally made out the light whisper of her breathing close by. Wrapped in the animal skins they would survive another night on the unforgiving prairie.

  When again he awoke, he sat up tentatively, inspected the wounds. They were not bleeding, and the pain was tolerable. She had left him alone again, this time, perhaps for good. If so it was for the best, though a strange, lonely feeling trickled through him. And oddly, he found himself wondering where she would go. Alone she would never survive.

  But what did it matter to him?

  He crawled from under the heavy buffalo coat and saw she had left water nearby, a strip of her torn underwear draped over the lip of the pot. He removed the poultices and used it to wash the wounds clean. How arousing to touch his flesh with what had once clothed hers. Where were these thoughts coming from? He had no time for them. Impatiently, he forced his head to clear itself of her, then stood up slowly, swaying for a moment on legs that trembled.

  Eyeing the cold fireplace and the disappearing pile of buffalo chips, he decided to do without a fire during the day. As he pushed the door covering aside to step out, the woman, wrapped in the larger of his blankets, appeared carrying two pots filled to the brim. Her appearance startled him, as his did her. But she didn’t flee nor spill the water, just let out a little “Oh!” and stared up and down his nearly naked body with those wide green eyes he found so delightful. In the white world...if he were still willing to be white...she would be much prized.

  Choosing to ignore her, he nodded tersely and strode around back of the soddie, holding himself as tall and straight as he could and trying not to limp too much. Thinking about her and the way she’d regarded his bare body brought an unexpected twitch of a smile to his lips. Odd that a white woman who made a living satisfying the needs of strange men, should be embarrassed by a man’s nudity.

  He must indeed be quite a sight to her, wearing only his breech cloth. The cold morning air revived him quickly and he hurried with his morning ablutions. He would have to wash the bloodstained clothing and try to get the dark splashes out of his boots. Running around nearly bare-ass naked wasn’t smart in this weather. Though the sky was a brittle blue, the sun shining, the air cut to the bone.

  As he returned to the shelter, his earlier relief at finding her gone turned to misgiving that she remained. Alone, he could survive and recover, but having a woman around to feed and look out for would make it tough. And though he didn’t like to admit it, she would also be quite distracting. Yet he couldn’t toss her out to fend for herself, even if she was white and a whore. On the other hand, he wanted nothing to do with her. She was foolish, talked too much, and would soon freeze to death if she didn’t put on some clothes.

  He grunted. The two of them were quite a pair.

  Maybe he cou
ld find something for her to wear in the bundle he’d carried from the battlefield. Certainly it would serve better than the tattered dress and silly looking shoes that must certainly hurt her feet.

  He followed her inside where she set two more pots of water. She had lined up a row of battered old tin pots around the fireplace.

  “What’s this about?”

  Eyes turned away so as not to look upon him, she said, “A bath.”

  “A what?”

  “I want to take a bath, and melting snow takes too long so I’m carrying water up from the spring. Now, if you’d build me a fire so I can heat it.”

  For a moment he was speechless, then ventured, “If there is a spring, then why not bathe in it? Save yourself a lot of trouble.”

  “It’s covered with ice...well, almost. Besides, it’s too cold.”

  “The Cheyenne break the ice to bathe.”

  Now it was her turn to go mute, and she stared at him, disbelief overriding her embarrassment at his lack of attire. “I...I didn’t think Indians bathed. Are you truly Cheyenne?”

  His eyes darkened. “One drop of blood would be enough. As it happens, I have a bit more than that. My mother was—” Breaking off, he turned and strode from the room that had suddenly grown too cramped. This was none of her business, and he didn’t want her to know anything about him. Not anything. It would bind them together in ways he didn’t desire. He did not know her name, had no interest in it.

  Muttering in his mother’s tongue, he followed her trail through the snow to the spring. There he squatted, found himself a large rock and chipped away the thin ice around the mouth of the spring. Off came the cloth tied about his waist, and with a howl he lowered himself in the water. The icy dunking cooled his temper, so that when he popped up and saw her standing there watching him with shocked disbelief, he actually laughed.

  “Coming in?” he asked and reached out a hand.

  She backed off, gaping at him as if he had lost his mind.

  At least his action had served to shut her up. The woman talked far too much, so much he couldn’t think. He took the ribbons from his braids and went under again, scrubbing at his scalp. His skin tingled pleasantly and his breath came in gasps. It was a matter of control.

  Head tilted back, he stared through the crystalline water at her wavering figure. The red hair gleamed like copper in the sunlight, and in the rainbow colors reflected off the ice she resembled some spiritual being hovering above him. Blowing bubbles to ripple the vision, he surfaced and bounded out of the spring to stand before her. The shock to his wounds would have doubled him over if he had allowed such a thing. But he sucked in the pain, wondered why she stared at him so. Too late he realized she’d caught an eyeful of his naked condition and wasn’t looking away. Stubbornly, he remained before her, hands folded over his manly parts as if it were a natural stance.

  Her face flushed and she pinched back a cry, but this time those incredible green eyes didn’t flicker, not even briefly as she closely examined the entire length of his bare body. Suddenly it was him who felt uneasy.

  Before he could react, she said softly, “Would you like me to braid your hair?”

  “I certainly would not,” he said. “It is not your place.”

  She looked around, then back at him with an expression of deviltry. “Who would know? I’m good at it. My mother wears her lovely hair in a long braid wound around her head, and many’s the time I’ve done it up for her.”

  He thought of this woman’s gentle touch on his back, the way she’d applied the poultices, her own long tresses tickling his skin. Imagined her fingers in his long hair and gazed straight into her challenging eyes. “You have lovely hair yourself.”

  The quick shift in subject brought a look of flushed surprise to her features. Reddened cheeks heightened the beauty of her ivory complexion and for a moment he forgot he stood before her without any clothes on. Forgot that he did not want to get to know this woman who had interrupted his quest. They were alone together with no other living soul anywhere. Desire rippled through him, like a visitor long time absent. Shocked at the unexpected feelings, he took a step toward her, shivering in a light breeze that stirred her hair.

  She reached out a hand that shook slightly, and he took it, oblivious to all else. Her fingers were soft against his. If she took another step, or he did, they’d be touching.

  “You’re cold,” she said, and the words broke the spell between them.

  Immediately, he regretted being so foolish. All he had wanted was to shock her so she would keep her distance. He hated her nearness, hated the way she made him feel, like some lusting white man. Hated that her very presence had made him go back on his vow to never speak the white man’s tongue again. He knew all about the spell this kind of woman could cast on a man, for hadn’t he been white before he came to his senses? All he wanted was to save his people and take revenge on the white soldiers. On all whites, and that had to include her. So he turned his back, gathered up his scant clothing, and walked past her as if she were invisible.

  As he retreated through the trees, Aiden stared at the broad shoulders, the rippled wet hair that hung to his narrow waist, admired the muscled legs and taut backside. She had judged him a savage, was surprised to see desire for her written across his features. And then when she reacted, he looked as if he’d been caught peeking up her dress. She’d seen the expression before, and wondered at it, for surely he didn’t embarrass that easily. And what of her own reaction? Earlier shame had quickly changed to admiration and wonder. Was she turning as savage as he?

  On more than one occasion in her life lately, it had occurred to her that she was fast approaching an age when no man of any consequences would look upon her with desire. At any rate, not any man she could feel the same way about. Now here was this beautiful specimen of a man, no doubt her junior by a few years, sending signals she yearned to answer. In the overall scheme of things, who would it hurt?

  By the time she returned to the cabin he had dressed in the layers of winter clothing common to Indians in the north, covering all his attributes quite well. He still refused to look at her or speak. And he had built a fire to heat the water.

  “Thank you...for the fire.”

  He nodded. “We’re almost out of fuel. Soon we’ll have to be going.”

  He picked up a bundle of clothing. “I think you’ll be more comfortable...after you bathe. I’ll leave you to it.” With the terse words, he whirled and left. Before closing the door, he added, “Shout when you are dressed, and don’t be too long. It is getting cold outside.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to play turn about and watch me?”

  Face flushing, he snapped, “I most certainly do not.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, thank you.”

  When he aimed a puzzled gaze at her, she held up a shirt from the clothing. “For these.”

  “Yes, well, you’re welcome. It is not good, you running around looking like...” He gestured and shut up. Stared at her with a look she couldn’t read, and pushed the door firmly shut.

  Arms crossed, she stared at the door. He’d said they’d be leaving soon. Not he but they. It appeared he was going to take her with him. But where? And to what purpose? Strangely, excitement and not fear built within her at the prospect.

  In her temporary profession as a singer and dancer, her policy had been that the men in the audience could look but not touch, and those who came to see her perform honored that ruling, as if fearful she might disappear if they did not. And besides, they were either fat or bony old things, some filthy of body with tobacco-stained beards and dirty fingernails and the breath of a wild animal. She had no desire to look on them at all. But this man, Stone Heart, whose name quite aptly fit him, had some fine equipment in all the right places. And she’d seen it all. Thinking of it made her want to touch him, have him touch her. He was lean and muscular like a wild cat, and much cleaner than she expected a man like him to be. Especially delightful was that streaked blond hair hangi
ng halfway down his back. Her fingers itched to get into it. No Indian had hair like that; no white man had a right to.

  Still thinking of Stone Heart as he emerged from the cold spring, she removed remnants of the blue dress and began to wash, starting with her face and neck.

  Mama always said wash the cleanest parts first, then work your way to the dirtiest, but she couldn’t help thinking that she had no cleanest parts. All appeared equally soiled. The hot water felt good on her skin, and she wished she had some castile soap. How wonderful that would be. She could almost smell its light, sweet fragrance, see herself and Mama in the kitchen after her brothers had bathed and gone out on a Saturday night. Stripping down to bare skin, each taking a turn standing in the washtub near the stove. Soaping, each rinsing the other, then washing their identical hair. Dear God, how she ached to go home again. Ironic, wasn’t it? That she had yearned so to get away, only to find that freedom was more of a trap than home had been.

  Stone Heart had recovered remarkably well from the wounds, and she prayed he would help her escape this fix. Even if it meant she’d soon be on her way back to Saint Louis and civilization, never to see him again. Though she admired his masculinity, she wanted no more to do with this horrid country, its harsh winters and incessant winds. But it certainly didn’t hurt to daydream a bit about being in his arms. His full, lush lips on her. She shivered, trailed fingertips over her taut nipples.

  Shaking herself, she quickly finished her bath and investigated the bundle of clothing.

  He’d given her a hand-laced buckskin vest with lovely blue and red beading in an intricate pattern on either side. A long-sleeved shirt made of blue chambray was obviously acquired at a trading post. Long buckskin leggings and a pair of fur-lined moccasins finished off the outfit. The clothing smelled of wood smoke and something wild and mysteriously akin to him. She shuddered to think they may have come off some dead Indian, but she slipped into them gratefully. Feeling warm and snug, she peered through the doorway, anxious to catch sight of him.