Walks Alone

by Sandi Rog

  She nodded.

  “We have to take off the boot. Your ankle will swell up, and you’ll never get it off.”

  “Just don’t let any snakes crawl into it.”

  “You have my word.” He put his fist to his chest. “I will fight them off like the brave I am.” A gleam of amusement flashed in his eyes. He knelt in front of her and took her foot in his hands. “Do you mind?”

  “No.” He loosened the boot, and she held her breath as he pulled it off.

  “So that’s why you danced with your boots in the water,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

  “What?”

  His gaze flickered to hers. “Nothing.”

  The meaning of his words slammed into her mind as if a boulder had just fallen from the sky. She yanked her skirt down to cover her toes.

  “You saw me? That whole time you saw me!” Her voice quivered. She felt dizzy with the knowledge of all he might have seen. “Were you there when I . . . .” She couldn’t finish. Of course, he had been there and seen her wet chemise clinging to her body. Thank goodness she hadn’t taken off all her clothes. Still, heat crept from her neck to her cheeks. How humiliating. How dreadful!

  “Take off your stocking. I need to see your ankle,” he said, looking serious about the task before him.

  “I will not!”

  “Why not? I’ve already seen everything.”

  Gritting her teeth, she said, “Face the other direction.”

  He blew out air and turned his back.

  She inched her dress up to her thigh, all the while keeping her eyes on him to make sure he wasn’t looking. Blushing at the thought of his watching her perform these very actions by the river, she unhooked her stocking and pulled it off her upheld leg. When finished, she quickly draped the dress back over her leg and ankle.

  “You may turn around now.”

  He turned and knelt down before her. “Can you move your foot?”

  With it still hidden under her skirt, she moved her foot. “Yes.”

  Shaking his head, he lifted the seam of her dress and firmly took hold of her ankle. Holding it in his palm, he rubbed and squeezed her heel and foot.

  She winced from the pain.

  “Move your toes.”

  She wiggled them.

  “It’s not broken.” He slowly moved her ankle from side-to-side.

  Tilting her head and hiding behind several strands of hair, she admired the way his dark skin contrasted against her own. She reprimanded herself, for she ought to be ashamed that her ankle was exposed.

  “Keep it cool,” he said, and dipped her foot in the water. “It’ll keep the swelling down.”

  She held her ankle under the water. It ached from the cold but soon went numb.

  White Eagle walked up the embankment and left her.

  As he strode away, a turmoil of emotions dropped in her lap. She pulled her free leg up to her chest and rested her chin on one knee.

  How could she ever look him in the eyes again after he’d seen her in her wet chemise? Her head popped up. How many others had seen her? Cheeks hot, she pressed her chin down hard against her knee. She wanted to weep all over again. So much for thinking she’d been smart by keeping her chemise on. One thing was certain—from now on, as long as she was in the wild, she would bathe fully clothed.

  Hands lifted her hair off her back, and she turned. White Eagle draped the tresses over her shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” She almost told him to stop, but his gentle touch had been a subtle comfort.

  He handed her a flower. It had long purple petals with white shorter petals in its center. She turned the beautiful blossom over in her hand and held it to her nose.

  “Thank you.” Was this his way of apologizing?

  He held out a small, rectangular piece of leather, took hold of his tomahawk and sat down next to her. After laying the leather over a rock, he pierced a small hole into each end. He then laid the tomahawk in the sun and pulled a short stick out of his belt. With his dagger, he carved one end into a point and smoothed out its edges.

  As she watched him, her gaze traced up the fringed arm of his shirt, to the colorful, beaded leather that was bound to a lock of hair behind his ear. Feathers dangled and protruded from his head at different angles. Every part of him intrigued her. How did he make the feathers stay in place? They had to be tied in somehow. She leaned in for a closer look and found that some were indeed tied with a thin strap of leather. Fascinating. The slight wave of his hair as it lay against his back made her want to twirl her finger around its ends.

  He looked in her direction.

  She quickly glanced away. The buzz of insects swarmed around them, making for a nice distraction as she waved at them.

  He finished with the stick and picked up the leather. He held his tomahawk just right so it would reflect the sun. He then laid the hot part of the small ax on the leather. After waiting a moment, he placed the tomahawk back in the sun and used his dagger to carve a design on the warm part of the skin. His strong hands moved the knife with grace and perfection, capturing the sun with his tomahawk, then warming the skin, and with the dagger, drawing thin lines of delicate flowers and lacy stems along its edges.

  Stunned that a wild man could make such delicate, beautiful designs, she closed her gaping mouth to hide her fascination.

  He turned and took her hair in one hand. He motioned for her to watch as he bunched the strands together and wrapped the leather rectangle around her tresses. He then pushed the carved stick through the holes. When he released her hair, it fell over one shoulder, bunched together in its new clasp.

  She examined his craftsmanship and stared in wonder at the beautiful wrap that bound her hair. She glanced up in his blue-green eyes. How should she respond? “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He took the flower, his fingers brushing hers, and placed it in her hair. He then dragged up his knee, leaned on it, and gazed at her as if he were studying a painting he’d just completed.

  Birds chirped nearby as he stared at her, and she looked away, watching the water in front of them while her cheeks flamed with heat.

  His bright eyes seemed to peer right into her soul, and his face, even buried under all that paint, was so very handsome. She feared he might see by her expression that she found him attractive.

  He shifted, and her gaze flickered to his leg, to the leather flap draped over his moccasin. He rested his elbows on his knees and peered out over the water. “Why were you walking alone? So far behind the wagons of the settlers?”

  She brushed her fingers along her new hair clasp, admiring the beautiful pictures he had drawn.

  “Beth offered me a ride, but Al—her husband—wouldn’t allow it. The others wouldn’t let me ride with them either.”

  “The heat could have killed you.”

  “They thought I was rich,” she said with a slight laugh. She waved her hand at the mosquitoes, shaking her head.

  “Rich or not, you could have died.” He stood. “Keep your foot in the water.” He marched back up the bank.

  Well, she didn’t die, obviously. Now she understood why the Indians called her Walks Alone. She had wondered why they had given her such a strange name. Of course, they had seen her walking behind the wagons. What didn’t they see? And why didn’t she see them? Then she remembered the invisible hills in the landscape. She recalled the hill that hid the river. The land had appeared flat and desolate, but apparently it hid many secrets—and savages.

  White Eagle returned with three small turtle pouches in his hands and knelt beside her. “Close your eyes.”

  She closed her eyes. His face, so near her own, forced her lips into an uncontrollable grin.

  “Be still,” he said. His callused fingers gently lifted her chin.

  She took a deep breath, trying to control the smile from her face. Why was she smiling when he had embarrassed her so? She was his captive, after all. Still, she felt like a child, giddy all over. She cleared her throa
t. After his making such a lovely clasp for her hair, she wondered what else he might do for her.

  He smeared something on her cheeks. The ointment he applied brought cool relief to her hot face. He rubbed it on her nose and chin.

  “May I have a new name?” she asked, keeping her eyes closed.

  “You already have one. Walks Alone is a good name.”

  She frowned. “It’s just not very pretty, that’s all.” What did it matter anyway? It’s not like she planned on staying with the Indians.

  “You can open your eyes now.”

  He crouched before her with a boyish grin. Why did he find her so amusing, and what brought on his pleasure this time?

  She noticed white on her nose and bent down over the water to see what he’d done. To her horror, he had smeared war paint all over her face.

  She looked up at him. “What have you done to me?”

  “Now you’ll be protected from the sun.”

  Chapter Eight

  Birds chirped in the trees, and White Eagle pushed a branch away from his head as he and Anna rode through beautiful woods. The sounds of the horse’s hooves crunching pinecones hung in the quiet air. Aspen trees bore leaves the size of half-dollars that quaked in the slightest breeze, and their white bark made him think of an enchanted forest.

  Anna’s quiet gasps interrupted the silence as she gazed with parted lips at the beauty and wonder of their surroundings.

  Despite White Eagle’s lack of sleep, he hadn’t felt this alive in years. Never had anyone been able to make him laugh the way this little woman could. He shook the thoughts from his head. Had he lost his mind? He was attracted to a white woman. A woman who knew nothing of his race. Yet her yellow hair brushing against his chest numbed all reservations.

  It took all the will power he had to keep from touching her these past nights. But he had been a gentleman and kept his hands to himself. He almost felt sorry he’d given his word not to touch her. He felt certain he could seduce her, and then she’d come to him willingly, but to try anything would have been wrong. He had a much higher Authority to answer to than himself—as his father always used to remind him.

  With that Bible in her carpetbag, he knew she was under that same Authority. It made him watch her more closely. Would she behave like the white men who thought Indians were subhuman and treat his fellow tribesmen with disdain? He understood why she treated him that way. But there was something about her that made him question if she’d be the same with others.

  Being around her not only reminded him of his days with the white man, but it made his mind feel tired from speaking English. He had to think of every word, every sentence to get it right. Luckily, she talked a lot, so he didn’t have to, and she brought to mind a number of words he’d forgotten. After spending these few days with her, he noticed his sentence length improving, and the language was starting to feel natural again.

  “Look there.” He pointed across a steep ravine to a high bluff. A ledge protruded from the bluff’s edge with a gathering of branches. “An eagle’s nest.” He glanced down at her. Those forest-green eyes seemed to soak in all that he showed her. He longed to be in her mind, to know what she was thinking. He couldn’t help but notice how captivated she became by everything she saw. It encouraged him to show her more, to impress her.

  “Eagles mate for life,” he said, studying her, wondering if she might make the connection to his name. “They never separate.” If he married her, they would separate.

  Her gaze fluttered in his direction, but she immediately glanced away and shifted in obvious discomfort.

  He stifled a chuckle. It was easy to make her jittery, and he had fun teasing her. “If a human ever touches an eagle’s eggs, the mother will abandon the nest.” He eased the horse closer to the edge of the cliff.

  An eagle flew through the deep ravine and landed on its high perch on the rocky bluff. Her gaze traced the bluff and lifted into the blue, cloudless sky then down into the ravine where a river roared at its base. It was as if she tried to take it all in, the sounds of birds, the river far below, and the wind blowing through the trees.

  “A mother bear and her cubs.” He motioned toward the river.

  She bent and peered down at a bear stretching its paw into the water.

  “She’s teaching her cubs how to fish,” he said, wondering if he’d ever have an opportunity to teach his own children how to fish. Would she be the mother of his children? If they married, he could have no other.

  The cubs leaped playfully on the riverbank, not paying any attention to their mother.

  “They’re so precious. I’d love to hold one.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” He almost chuckled, intrigued by her innocence and fondness for the cubs. “A mother bear is deadly.”

  White Eagle turned the horse away from the ravine, and they entered the woods once again. They wove between more trees and worked their way deep into the forest as he pushed branches away from her face. Soon they came to an opening between the trees and found themselves at the edge of a meadow.

  Majestic mountains surrounded a beautiful pasture. Colorful flowers bloomed on every hill and in the distant valleys, and pine trees cascaded down the snowcapped mountainsides.

  “If only I could fly,” she said as they entered the clearing.

  “Hold on.” White Eagle urged his mount into a trot. He put his arm around her waist to hold her steady, a good excuse to touch her. He urged the horse into a gallop.

  She relaxed into the movements of the animal.

  The beast’s strength and power surged through his legs, and the mountains towered above them on every side. He hoped to dispel all her fears of falling.

  Her hair, bound in his clip, whipped behind her, and she laughed.

  The fragrance of the air filled his lungs. “Soar on the wind,” he said. They practically flew between the majestic landscape surrounding them. “Like this.” He took her hands in his own, intertwining his fingers with her small ones.

  As she leaned into him, he slowly held out her arms and rested his cheek against hers as the horse continued its pace.

  “Soar on the wind,” he said again.

  “I’m free!”

  He grasped her waist. “Imagine you’re a bird, flying over the clouds,” he said in her ear. “Nothing can stop you. You’re flying towards freedom. No one can hold you back.”

  She tossed back her head, surrendering herself to him. A childlike trust beamed from her, and that cool exterior melted away. The beat of the horse’s hooves pulsated through them both as if they were one.

  The wind whipped through her hair, brushing its yellow strands against his cheek. He seized the locks in his fist and buried his face in her mane. Without her noticing, he wrapped the thick mass around his neck, satisfying at least one small ache he had from the first moment he laid eyes on her.

  A hawk soared past them and swooped down, its wingspan magnificent. It caught a rabbit in its claws and flew to the other side of the clearing. As they neared the other end of the meadow, he slowed the horse to a canter then to a walk.

  “That was wonderful!” she shouted, short of breath as if she’d been running. Laughing, she whirled around to look at him. Her hazel eyes sparkled and then fell on her yellow hair still wrapped around his neck and dangling over his chest. She covered her mouth. “Forgive me,” she said as she started to pull the thick mane off his shoulder.

  He snatched her wrist. “Leave it.”

  The pulse quickened in her neck as her gaze fluttered uncomfortably back toward the front of the horse.

  ~*~

  That afternoon, Anna and White Eagle met up with Running Cloud and his warriors. Beth had a contented smile on her face and seemed as fascinated with the beautiful Rocky Mountains as Anna.

  She turned to Anna, and her eyes widened.

  Anna smiled, but wondered what had surprised her friend. Then Anna’s cheeks went warm when she recalled that the Indians had seen her by the river. She tried to av
oid their gazes to hide her embarrassment but couldn’t help noticing their frowns.

  Several of them said something to White Eagle. They raised their voices and gestured in her direction. He responded in turn. They argued with vehemence back and forth, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She found security as his arm tightened around her waist. Finally, Running Cloud interrupted the flow of words, and everyone fell silent.

  White Eagle moved away from the others.

  “What was that all about?” she asked in a whisper, not wanting to attract the attention of the unhappy warriors.

  “You wear war paint.”

  She had completely forgotten about her incredible appearance. Her face became so hot, she wondered if the paint might melt away. She wished it would.

  After stopping at a stream to wash off the paint, they came to an open valley where tipis sprouted from a carpet of green. An Indian village surrounded an empty circle with a large opening toward the east, the direction from which they came. A small lake shimmered to the left of the village, horses grazed in the western field on a hill, and dogs roamed about.

  “Part of the Cheyenne tribe.” White Eagle motioned with his chin toward the village.

  “Cheyenne,” Anna said, trying to recall what she knew about the name. She had mainly thought of it as the town that would take her to Denver City, not as Indians. Then it hit her. When she was ten and had just arrived from Holland, news about the Sand Creek Massacre had reached the East. A former minister and his men attacked an Indian village, despite the fact that a Union flag waved in the center as a sign for peace. The soldiers had shot and clubbed the Indian people, including children. When the news spread, the American people had been shocked.

  That happened six years ago, but would these people want to avenge what happened to them on her and Beth today?

  “Our people were forced to Indian Territory. We escaped into the mountains. We are plains Indians, but we live here, rather than move to lands forced on us where they attack our people after promising peace.”