Stone Heart's Woman

by Velda Brotherton

  “And let cold air in every time we come out to get more? Crawl out of a warm bed to fetch it? Inside it will begin to thaw, be easier to burn. Let’s just get it done and it will be done.”

  Though her hands and feet felt like stubs, and her nose and cheeks were so numb she couldn’t feel them, she stubbornly dropped to her knees and backed into the tunnel to do his bidding. He was a lot worse off than she, and still he remained like an pillar of stone. Did he never quit?

  “Damn him,” she muttered when he shoved the first bundle of limbs through the opening. “Damn, damn, damn him. And while I’m at it, damn you too, Stephan.” She had never been angrier at him for leaving her than at this miserable moment.

  Wiggling into the dugout dragging her awkward armload, she concentrated on her hatred of the man who had gotten her into this fix. It wasn’t Stephan’s fault, it was those damned savage Indians. With the help of that one out there, she’d live, if only to prove a strength no one thought she possessed, including herself.

  By the time they had all the wood transferred, she was barely able to drag herself back to the entrance one last time. There was still that damned rat to deal with. Poking her head out into the darkness, she saw he was busy cleaning the ugly little critter, and to her surprise, realized she was hungry enough to eat it.

  “Don’t you need me to help you do that?” Be darned if she’d quit till he did.

  “No, go in and build up the fire and put on a pot of water. I can handle this.”

  “Because it’s smaller than a rabbit?” she ventured.

  “Any man can clean his own game.”

  If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she’d have hit him with something. “So why did you...?” Even that didn’t seem profitable, and she sighed and backed away. No sense in getting into that. Obviously he was having a fine time testing her, and she was too tired to play the game any longer.

  While she put a pot of half-melted snow onto the briskly burning fire, she mimicked him. “Any man can clean his own game. Well, any woman can do some things herself, too.” She wished she could think what they were, but in this situation, nothing came to her. Not out here in this godforsaken place.

  When he scrambled in with the chunks of pink meat, the pot of water was boiling and she sat with her bare feet propped near the fire. She’d fed some of the wet wood into the hot fire made by the last of the buffalo chips and they sizzled noisily.

  He dropped each piece of meat into the pot, washed his hands in some melted snow and removed his wet moccasins. To her surprise, he peeled out of the wet leggings as well. His long, muscular legs glowed in the dancing firelight. Though she tried to avert her gaze, her wandering eyes admired the supple limbs. He wore only a breech cloth, and the curve of his tight loins disappeared into umber shadows between his thighs. Blood poured from the wound above the garment. He’d opened it back up.

  Raising onto her knees to inspect his back, she said, “Sit down, let me take care of that. Doesn’t it hurt?”

  He lowered himself to the blanket spread beside the fire, the expression on his face answering her question. It did hurt, but he’d kept going because he had no choice. She saw that and cupped a hand across his forehead.

  “You’re burning up. Lie down.”

  “It is fine. Do not fuss.”

  “I’ll fuss if I want to. Lie down. It won’t do for you to bleed to death, now will it?”

  Casting a dark glower in her direction, he lay so that she could inspect the exit wound from which the blood came. She found remnants of her drawers, dipped the scrap into a pot of water, and cleaned his flesh.

  “You’ve torn it open, but I think it’ll be all right, if you’ll just rest and let it heal.” Fetching his parfleche she made another poultice and packed it over the wound.

  He refused to make a sound, though she knew it must hurt.

  When she had finished, he turned over, propped his head in one hand, and stared into the fire.

  While the musk-rat boiled, she spread his wet britches to dry, then joined him, stretching her legs out to toast her toes. In the confines of the small room, she was extremely conscious of the attraction she felt for this savage. It left her limp and expectant, dismayed at her own weakness. Beneath the men’s clothes she wore, her nipples tingled. If he were to touch her there, the ache would explode into a passion such as she’d never known. That secret knowledge settled down in her belly where another more urgent ache spread its claw-like fingers. She had never wanted a man in such a way, imagined his sensuous lips closing over her breasts. His tongue, warm and wet, tracing languid patterns across the right nipple, then the left, leaving a trail of sweet moisture that would lead finally to her very core. Then he would take her like the savage he was, with a great howling. And she would join him in like manner.

  Stephan would never know her passions. Served him right.

  Ashamed and embarrassed, she licked her lips and remained silent. With the fantasy fresh in her mind she dare not look at him for fear he would read her mind. Wet wood crackled and hissed in the heat of the flames, and occasionally a sweet scent of its burning wafted through the room.

  Suppose they died tomorrow. Then what would anything else matter? She wished he would take her in his arms, like he had the night she’d almost frozen.

  Studying his profile in the firelight, she knew he wouldn’t, and felt very sad.

  Forcing her mind from the flight of romantic fancy, she murmured, “I’d kill for a bath.”

  “There is always the spring.”

  She shot him a withering glance. “No, thank you. I said I’d kill, not die.”

  He grunted, nodded, waited. Finally announced, “We will leave tomorrow.”

  The expected declaration brought fear to her heart, and she jerked around to stare at him. “Are you sure? I think you should rest another day. Let that heal.”

  “No time. We go in the morning. I am fine. Another storm could come at any time.”

  “What if we get lost, can’t find our way?”

  “We cannot stay here. We will have no more wood to burn, and if another blizzard hits we will sit here and die. It’s better if we make a try for the fort. We are not that far away. We’ll eat, sleep, and at first light bundle up and go.”

  “I thought you said the white men were killing all of...of...your people?” She couldn’t bear the thought that he might walk into that fort only to die.

  “They will let me come in, especially if I bring you unharmed. I will be another prisoner along with those who lived through the massacre.”

  “But you can’t. I mean, I won’t let you do that. You have to be free, you said so yourself. You have to go home.”

  His eyes held surprise when tears trickled down her cheeks.

  “A’den, do not cry. It is not for you that I go back to the fort. It is for them, my people. I will help them escape and this time we will get away or all of us will die. I cannot leave them there. I must help them. You...well, you are just an added burden for me. So it is foolish for you to cry. I do this, not for you but for myself.”

  He turned from her, anger darkening his features.

  Wiping the hot tears from her cheeks, she stared into the fire for a long time. The smell of the cooking meat permeated the close air around them and her mouth watered unexpectedly. It would appear she might be able to eat this rat after all.

  Oddly, his words did not offend her, but she was curious. “And back there, when you risked your life to save mine. What was that? Why didn’t you leave me out there to freeze? You came after me and so I’m still your burden. Because of you. I think you’re lying to me. I think like all men, you cannot face the truth that a woman might mean something to you. Even Stephan was much the same way. Coming west meant more to him than our love did. I saw that, though I wouldn’t admit it. I wanted so much to marry and have my own home. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  With one trembling hand, she reached out, touched his arm. The muscles jerked beneath her fingers
, but still he wouldn’t take any notice of her existence. Earlier, something had happened between them, but he was deliberately putting it aside. She knew she should do the same, yet couldn’t forget how he’d curled his body around hers to keep her warm, to save her life when he thought she was dying. And how safe she had felt when he held her in such a way.

  If they made it back to the fort she would never see him again. She would go back to St. Louis and he would race toward his own destiny. And since he insisted on throwing in with the Cheyenne, that destiny could be nothing but dark and foreboding.

  Angrily, she brushed a lock of hair from her face and stared at him, trying to force him to look at her. Shoulders hunched against the force of her words, he kept his back turned. She could not fathom what he might be thinking.

  “Perhaps your wish to marry this Stephan and have a home meant more to you than his love.”

  The truth of the words tore at her reserve and she began to cry.

  He paid no attention.

  “Stone Heart?” she whispered, rubbed his arm again.

  He stiffened, refused to answer.

  “I know you care for me. You saved my life.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It was everything. We’ll never see each other again.”

  “No, we will not.”

  “Then...I wonder if...I mean, since we will soon part forever, could you hold me...love me...just a little?”

  No reply, no movement.

  She sucked in a deep breath.

  “Don’t,” he said like a rifle shot.

  “Why?”

  “Do you have no pride that you would beg me?”

  “Pride? You talk of pride? If I had any pride I wouldn’t be out here. I would never have been so desperate as to follow Stephan around.

  “A’den.” His voice almost too soft to hear. “You tell me you are not a white man’s whore. Would you become mine? I cannot be your husband, or give you children.”

  “No, but you can teach me to love.”

  He took a deep breath, pulled her down beside him. “You know how to love, A’den. What you do not know is your value.”

  Lying so close to him, the very essence of his being washing over her like a soft caress, made her dizzy. “Then you don’t want me?”

  One hand spread through her hair, grasped the back of her head. “Oh, yes, I want you. I want the touch of you, I want to kiss you and have you kiss me. But this will not happen. It cannot. And it has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”

  Anger sparked in his eyes, but he gathered her into his arms and held her close. She felt a bereavement so harsh she could hardly contain it, but she knew there was nothing either of them could do.

  A while later they ate the hot meat with their fingers. He divided the broth and they drank every drop. Not once while she chewed and swallowed did she think of that furry and disgusting little animal he’d killed. Could it be she would get used to living like this? God, she hoped not.

  Stone Heart was up and down all night, keeping the wood stacked high on the hot fire so it could dry before burning. They would use it all and leave at dawn. He held out little hope for their safe arrival at Ft. Robinson, but at least they had a better chance than if they remained here with no food or fuel. If they made it, the trip would take two or three days, but only if the weather remained clear and nothing unexpected happened.

  Most of the long, dark night he watched her sleep. More than once, when his hopes grew dim, he considered leaving her here and sending someone back for her, but then when he studied her face, so innocent in sleep, he knew he could not do such a thing. For if he did she would not live to be rescued. Once he tucked her hair off her face, made sure the buffalo coat covered her. Lingered to caress her soft cheek with the tips of his fingers. Perhaps he should have made love to her when she asked. For if they were both to die, it would be a good thing, a right thing. Though the passion raged within him like a caged beast, he couldn’t bring himself to release it. She had placed her trust in him, and he would save her if he could, from both death in the wilderness and her misplaced desire. For surely she would regret allowing such a thing, once it was done. She called him a savage, and that is what he was.

  He had killed white men in battle, yet he could not betray this white woman. She was so strong and bright and good-hearted, he wondered how a man such as the one she described could abandon her to such a terrible fate. He must have known what was in store for her out here on the frontier.

  If things had been different, if he himself had chosen to remain white, he might consider taking her for his own. But the way things were, that wasn’t possible. Never would be. He must turn from all things white, especially the heritage of his hated father whose cruel pursuit of the Cheyenne and Lakota was legendary. And all the time Custer committed his acts of murder, he continued to take to his tent the beautiful copper-skinned women of his enemy, siring children who would grow up hating him.

  Stone Heart must have been the first, for Custer had been but a young man when he arrived in camp and wooed the lovely White Robe, daughter of Dull Knife’s younger sister. Planted the seed that would produce Stone Heart, his first, but not last, child of the Cheyenne. How honored she must have felt, being singled out by the handsome, yellow-haired white boy. Lying in his arms on the river bank she could not have guessed that one day her lover would become the slayer of her people.

  In the eyes of the Dull Knife band of Cheyenne, Custer was their relative because he had fathered children with their women. How could this white soldier, their kin, then turn on them with such ferocity? This they would never understand. Some continued to protect him with their silence until his death at Greasy Grass, what the white man called Little Big Horn.

  Stone Heart yearned to dance on his father’s grave, wished he had been at the battle and watched him die. Further, wished the death had been at his own hand. Now he could do nothing but try to save what remained of his people. Once he delivered this woman safely to Ft. Robinson, he would forever on be Cheyenne, until the grass grew no more, until the rivers ceased to flow, and the sun fell from the sky. He could sense the end coming for his people, and thus would he do penance for the deeds of Long Hair.

  But first, there was this woman who lay beside him in sleep. He gently traced the curve of her determined chin, along the line of her jaw, brushed her full lips with the tip of his thumb. Drawing her in his mind so as never to forget her.

  When he shook her awake, Aiden rose without a word and joined him in preparing the packs they would carry. She didn’t want to leave the safe little haven, but knew she had no choice. He was adamant, and if she tarried he would go without her. The light had gone out of his eyes, and she sensed there would be no more kindnesses. He had become the terrifying Cheyenne warrior she had discovered in the dugout what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Once again fear filled her heart and her soul ached over the loss of something she’d never truly had.

  Chapter Seven

  Josiah awoke to wind rattling the makeshift shelter he’d built for himself up a ways from Hat Creek. His traps had been empty, owing to the soldiers chasing those blamed wild Cheyenne over half this countryside and scaring off the game. To get away from them he’d cut back cross country. It was cold enough to freeze the tail off a buffalo, and every time it warmed up a bit here’d come the snow. He’d never seen such a winter in ten years of trapping this country. The brutal cold cut to the bone, despite layers of clothing and fur wraps so thick around his feet he could hardly keep ’em under him.

  Snugged beneath the buffalo robes he took stock of his surroundings. The lowering gloom of winter’s dawn froze every breath into crystals in his chin whiskers. The snow had stopped, at least for now, but the wind continued to howl and rearrange what had fallen during the night.

  This time any other year his pack animal would’ve been loaded down with pelts. Instead he’d trapped very little, and two days ago had been forced to shoot one of the horse
s. The other, barely on four feet and staked out back, was starved and half-froze. Probably couldn’t go another mile. He’d have to remedy that situation and soon. Couldn’t let the poor beast suffer.

  What with the snow and cold it looked like he himself might not make it through this time. With a strange calm, he faced the imminence of his own death, discussed it aloud.

  “Well, shoot, Josiah, you’ve had a good run. Trapping’s ’bout petered out, nohow.”

  Who could ask for more out of life? Twenty years in the wilderness doing what a man was put on this earth to do. After all, he was nearing thirty-five. “Better’n being ’et by a bear like the most of us is.”

  Finally he sighed, ventured from beneath the pile of furs, and took up his Henry repeater. No sense letting that poor old horse suffer any longer. Should have put him away last night, but just didn’t have the grit. Old Peg had been with him a lot of years, done her share and then some. How would he explain it to her?

  Angrily, he fingered away a single tear, pulled on fur mittens and stepped from the shelter to greet another day in hell. Those who thought hell would be hot hadn’t spent a winter in Ne-brasky. Stomping his fur-bound feet, he moved around back to where he’d tied poor old Peg.

  Head hanging low, ears flattened against her head, she wobbled on weak legs. Didn’t even bother to look at him with expectation of grain like she usually did.

  “Aw, dang it, Peg,” he muttered and rubbed a hand down along her neck. “I’m sorry as all get out, honey. It’s time you rested.”

  Chocolate brown eyes rolled in his direction, but she didn’t raise her head. Cupping one fur-covered hand over her nose, he bent his forehead to hers in farewell.

  “I’m gonna miss you, old girl. Reckon I’ll be along soon. Hell, may join you before this day is out.”