The setting sun painted lavenders and pinks across the metallic sky, sharpening minute shadows that cut the snow-drifted plains. For an instant her heart fluttered, for she saw him nowhere. But then he came from behind the cabin, limping toward her, a huge bundle over one shoulder. From the other hand hung a furry animal which he threw down in the snow.
With horrified eyes, she studied the offering. It was a dead rabbit. Revulsion washed over her and she stepped back inside where she didn’t have to look at the poor little thing. Inside he deposited a blanket load of dried buffalo chips, and placed several in the fire. Without saying a thing, he went back outside, evidently to tend to the animal. There was only one reason for him to bring back such a thing, and that was so they could eat it. Her empty stomach roiled, growled, threatened to erupt. She couldn’t make up her mind whether she was revolted at the thought of eating such a cute animal, or so hungry it didn’t matter.
Perhaps if she remained inside until he had it ready to cook, she wouldn’t have to think about what she was really eating. To refuse would be foolish considering how hungry she was. The hardtack and jerky he’d shared earlier hadn’t lasted very long.
He pulled back the blanket, stuck his head in. “What’re you waiting for?”
“I don’t know, what?”
“I can clean this animal without your help, but you must work if you are to eat. So come on out here.”
She still wasn’t sure she understood. “Me? I don’t—”
“I know, and that’s why you need to learn.”
“But, I can’t.”
“Of course you can.” He started to come inside, intending, she was sure, on dragging her outside.
“Okay, okay, but I’ve been working. I hauled up water—”
“For your bath.” He reached for her arm.
Squealing, she dodged. “—and I...I took that bullet out of your back.”
“And now you are going to help clean and cook our supper.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Or you will not eat.”
“You mean you’d sit in front of me and eat it all?”
“Indeed I would.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged. “Watch me.”
For an instant she thought about it, then decided it wasn’t worth taking the chance. Her belly ached from hunger, and the idea of food of any kind made her mouth water.
Slowly, she peered out at him. The sun had set, left dancing colors that lit the sky, reflected on the surrounding snow.
“Close the door, you’re letting in the cold.” He stood over the poor dead bunny, knife in hand. At its throat blood matted the coat.
He didn’t look up. She did as he said, then sidled toward him. He knew she was there though. Said without even glancing at her, “Pick it up by the hind feet.”
She stared at the cute, furry little paws and swallowed harshly.
Without waiting for her to decide, he snatched it up and stuck the feet out. With one finger she stroked the fur.
He shook it. “Take hold.”
Once again she gulped, did as he said and squinched her eyes shut. The remaining warmth of its life enclosed in her palms made her sick. A hard jerk and she let go. Looked to see him discarding the fluffy cotton tail.
The poor thing lay in the snow between them, one glazed eye pointing up at her.
“Pick it up,” he said, impatience overridden by something she couldn’t identify. But it sure looked like amusement.
She shot him a quick glance. Damn him, he was all but laughing out loud at her. Grabbing up the limp bundle, she held it by the hind legs. Steeled herself.
“Not that way. Belly toward me so I can skin it properly. We will want the fur.”
She rolled the poor little thing over so its tummy was exposed for the knife, clenched her eyes shut.
“You had best watch. You might need to know this.” He pushed her hands apart, the touch of his fingers warm against her clenched fingers.
Through slitted lids she watched him yank out tufts of fur on the inside of both the hind legs till he had bared a curved patch. She shut her eyes, opened them at the sound of his knife cutting flesh. He sliced around one foot about midway, inserted the knife point just under the skin and began to work it loose from the muscle beneath, two fingers following along under the flap the knife made. Fascination replaced revulsion. He was undressing the rabbit like it wore furry longjohns. When he’d done this to both legs, he unfastened the skin right down the center of the belly, like the longjohns had buttons and he was undoing them one by one.
She gnawed her lip, then thought of the feel of flesh to teeth and clamped her lips tightly.
When the knife point and the clever fingers reached the neck, he returned to work close to her grip again, cutting around each foot to loosen the skin.
“Okay, flip him over.” He didn’t wait for her to react, but tugged the feet from her steely grip, turned the rabbit with its back up and handed the dead little paws back to her.
Thank goodness he’d left the fur on the feet so she didn’t have to hold on to that slimy flesh beneath. There was no blood except at the throat, and there a black blob that looked as if the rabbit had been wounded. It reminded her of the wound in his side and she swallowed hard to keep from heaving.
While she battled her thoughts, he took hold of the loosened skin and peeled it neatly away. She watched in amazement as he bared the hind legs, the back with its ridge of ribs and then the shoulders and front legs. Stared at the skin, a bluish-pink of tendon and flesh.
Before she realized what he was going to do next, he clasped the poor thing’s head, inside all that skin, and broke its neck. The crack sent a shudder down her spine. Instantly, he cut through the sinew and left her holding the decapitated body.
Hot bile rolling up from the pit of her stomach, she bent forward, coughed and spat, but brought up nothing. Surely, this couldn’t get much worse.
But she was deadly wrong. It did.
He didn’t even give her a chance to recover, nor did he say anything in warning of what was yet to come. He simply slit the poor thing’s stomach open with that deadly knife, spilling its steaming guts. An overpowering, hot, stench washed over her. Pale, steaming intestines hung in long dripping strands, attached to the rabbit in only one place, which she couldn’t even think about. She turned away when he went to work to solve that problem, and so didn’t have to see what he did.
“Okay, give him here,” he said, touching her hands.
She couldn’t let go, squinted through half-closed lids.
“Let go. You did fine. You are done.” He laid both hands over hers, but all she could think of was what he had just done with those hands, and their easy touch did not soothe her one bit.
“I will clean him up. You go fix us a vessel to cook him in. One that has a lid.”
Breathing raggedly, gulping over and over to control any upheaval from her stomach, she nodded and yanked her hands from his, shoved her way blindly through the door. There, with fists gripped at her sides, she regained a small amount of control over her lurching insides, steadied her dizzy head.
She had helped her mother clean plenty of fish, and occasionally a chicken, but none of that compared to what she had seen today.
It was entirely possible that she would starve to death before she let even a morsel of that meat pass her lips.
A while later, sitting across the fire from Stone Heart, she held the juicy hind leg of the rabbit in both hands as she ripped the sweet meat from the bone with her teeth. There was very little fat on the animal, but the broth from its cooking tasted rich, and they gulped it between bites. They took turns drinking from the smaller pan, for no eating utensils had been left behind by the former tenants.
He had cut the rabbit in four chunks and shared them equally with her, telling her, “You worked well, you eat well.”
After his words, the only sounds were those of lips smacking and moans of delight. Neither spoke until every last morsel was g
one and fingers were licked clean.
Wiping her mouth with the back of a hand, she glanced across the flickering flames. His lips gleamed with juices, and his metallic eyes shimmered as if about to shed tears. Of course, that wasn’t possible. He was too tough to cry over anything.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Firelight danced across his features, giving him a frightening look.
“And you as well. We worked fine together.”
Nodding, she wished she could think of something to say. Anything. This feeling of contentment washed away her earlier fears of dying out here on the prairie. He had brought it about. The clothing she wore, the food she ate, the warmth of the shelter.
“I guess I meant to thank you for more than...than the food. I would have died if it weren’t for you.”
His glance sharpened and he studied her intently. “How did you get here?” he asked, then looked away and waved a hand. “Forget I asked, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know. I only want to return to Fort Robinson and save my people...or what’s left of them.”
“The Cheyenne?”
A brisk nod.
“I thought...I thought they...you were sent back to Fort Reno, to Indian Territory. I mean, that’s what we heard over in Benson.”
“That’s not what happened. You can’t believe what the whites tell. We will never journey to the south again.”
He locked his arms around both knees and stared into the fire so long she thought he wouldn’t speak again, but then he did, in a mysterious tone that sent shivers over her skin.
Chapter Four
Stone Heart gazed into the fire, as if to look at her would reveal his true self, a thing he kept well hidden. Then he began to speak. “They brought them up from Fort Reno down in Indian Territory last year, with Dull Knife objecting all the way.”
“Were you with them?”
“Not until later. I had been away from my people...but I returned after...” He shrugged. “That doesn’t matter, what does is that I rejoined them, and I shall remain, no matter what happens.”
She despaired of him ever telling her everything. “It must be difficult, being of two minds and spirits, and pulled between the two.”
He glanced at her, then back toward the flames. “Not any more.”
“Because you have rejected the one?”
“Yes, I have.”
She nodded, though she didn’t think he spoke the absolute truth. Thus his sudden defensiveness. After all, he had reverted easily to speaking English soon after their first encounter. She decided not to pursue it, though, and instead urged him to continue the story.
“Because the leaders continued to tell the army they would not return, Captain Wessells stopped their rations...to convince them to be good and do as he wanted. They were hungry, but not ready to give in, so he cut off their water as well.”
“Even for the children?”
“Oh, yes. The preening jackass sees us all as the enemy.”
“And so they decided to...”
“Break out. Yes. Some of the women heard talk they were going to burn us out if we didn’t give in.”
“But they had you locked up, didn’t they?”
“Yes, of course. But we all voted to die rather than return to Indian Territory. If they would not let us go home. And so we broke out.”
“Where is home?”
“Montana, beyond the land of Greasy Grass. What you call the Little Big Horn.” The sharp tone cut the silence like a sword.
“Isn’t that where Custer was killed? The Little Big Horn.”
He spat into the fire. “The son of a bitch. He will rot in hell.”
She sent him a quick sideways look, reserved further comment when he stared with a murderous glint, appearing to see something far beyond the walls of the shelter.
He was silent for a long while, then went on in a voice tinged with grief.
“Braves were killing their own wives and children to keep from being taken. The soldiers were shooting at us, running us down like animals. I could not...I wanted to help, but there were so many. And we had so few weapons. Black Bear had his Custer rifle and Singing Wolf his Sharps. The rest—forty-four braves if you counted boys—between us we had five rifles and nine pistols, hardly any cartridges or lead or powder.”
She lay a hand on his arm, found muscles clenched with rage. Imagined what it would be like to be so consumed with hatred. Yet how could she blame him?
Taking a deep breath, he went on, as if sorrow poured from a deep wound gouged in his heart and he could not stop its flow. “Knives, we had some, mostly broken. Little Wolf, who carries the chief’s bundle, he escaped with some of the people. Even our women were strong and brave. And now so many are dead, I fear.” The words at last halted, he returned to that faraway place where memories dwell.
It was an unbelievable tale and she studied him in horrified awe.
She wanted to put an arm around his broad shoulders, now hunched in defeat, and pull his head to her breast. No people should be made to suffer so. But she didn’t, because when his eyes met hers, that half-wild expression carved a feral mask over his features, warned her off. He was in the mood to kill, not be hugged.
For a long while there was no sound in the silence of the cramped quarters. When he finally spoke again, the sharp tone startled her from a reverie that had carried her far from this place.
“Do not make the mistake of thinking we are defeated, though. Many were not among the dead, so I pray they lived. The soldiers dragged some of the bodies away, but they also must have taken prisoners back to the fort. I will go there, find out who survived. No one can stop me.” He spoke as if to an enemy, refused to look at her. Perhaps in some twisted way he felt she had some part in all this. Once again the distant place captured him and he withdrew.
She let him be for a moment and rebuilt the fire. “But one man alone, how can you hope to free them?”
“I will or die with them. We will not return to Indian Territory. We only wish to go home.” He glanced around, raised his broad shoulders. “And I cannot go without them.”
In sorrowful silence, she nodded. She too wanted to go home, and the need to do so would not go away. It clung to her, squeezed at her heart and dug a great vacant hole in her belly. Made her feel incomplete. Perhaps if he knew he would trust her to understand his desire.
“I too wish to go home, to my family. I don’t think I ever will, though.”
“You can go where you please. There is no one to stop you. You are white.”
“And so are you,” she snapped. “You don’t have to do this. You may think you’re Indian, but take off that garb and you’re almost as white as I am. No one would ever guess. So why do you torture yourself so?”
He grabbed her arm, twisted her around so they were nose to nose. She sensed his fury like a great palpable beast. Fear gnashed at her, stifled the cry that erupted from deep in her throat so that it came out like a croak. But she refused to look away, or show cowardice, instead stuck out her chin and held his burning gaze without flinching.
Lying her arm beside his, he clamped her jaw in an iron grip, forced her to gaze upon the contrast of ivory against copper.
“Look at my skin, look at yours. I may have the hair of my evil father, but my flesh is of the Cheyenne, and I will not live the lie of the white man anymore. You are white, I am not.”
She tried to pull away from the vicious grasp of his strong fingers, but he held her fast. Teeth grating in an effort to speak, she found only silence and a dreadful sorrow. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks, and the spark of anger in his eyes flared and went out.
He pushed her off, turned away. “Go to bed. This is not a time to talk.” Fiercely, he slammed through the door to disappear into the dark, cold night.
She had intended to clean his wounds, had put a pan of water near the fire to do so after they finished eating. Now he was gone, and she didn’t even know when or if he would return.
Sin
ce she could do nothing about it, she made a bed using one of the blankets he’d brought and wrapping herself in Wiley Lawson’s buffalo coat. This night she would again sleep in close quarters with a savage, knowing that he considered her part of an enemy that he would readily slaughter. Suppose he decided to take her first? Out by the spring she had sensed a definite attraction between them. While they performed their little mating dance, his desire had risen hot and fierce. The confrontation hadn’t been that much different from the one that took place between her and Stephan before he lured her to this wilderness only to abandon her. There would only be one difference. Stone Heart would likely not bother to leave her alive after he had her. He would take her scalp, and she would not be able to stop him.
Despite her vow to remain awake and alert, her full belly and the warmth from the fire soon lulled her into a deep sleep.
Outside, Stone Heart dragged in a great breath that seared his lungs with the brutal cold, and waited for the passion of the last few moments to cool. For underlying the white-hot fury he felt against the white man had risen a renewed desire for the red-haired beauty whose courage so impressed him. Above him, stars blazed their cold fire and he gazed up into the heavens. The frigid cold caressed his cheeks, fell over his shoulders and enclosed him in its brutal embrace. He should have had the sense to pick up a blanket before storming out into the cold. Now he could stand out here and freeze, at least until she went to sleep so he didn’t have to deal with what was happening between them. She knew nothing of his people, or of him, and it would be best left that way. Why had he spoken to her of what had happened at Fort Robinson?
What kind of woman was this that she could affect him in this way? He had loved before, loved and lost, loved and discarded, even been discarded, but never had he felt quite like this about a woman. Like every time she looked at him she held his heart in the same hands that had bathed his wounds. If he closed his eyes, he imagined her sweet, soft lips covering his mouth. It was so hard to understand. She was such a tattered little thing, not only white but a whore as well. What was wrong with him? He had this one final duty to perform for his people that surpassed all else, and he would do it. What his father, the hated Long Hair Custer, had done to the Lakota and Cheyenne, he must atone for in some small way. What good it might do he had no idea. But he had to try, even if he died in the effort. Especially if he died. That would finally pay the debt, once and for all.
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