High Plains Bride

by Jenna Kernan

  He left the goods with Jenson and went to collect his horses and wagon. Then he loaded up his purchases, now neatly wrapped in brown paper. He tied the newly shod horses to the back and headed for home.

  Sarah waited on the porch, descending the steps to help him unload. She smelled of fresh mint.

  He squinted at her. “You been in my kitchen?”

  He’d told her earlier that he made all meals and to keep clear of his things. She hadn’t been happy but had nodded her consent.

  “I made tea and sandwiches.” Her voice sounded defensive.

  He suppressed a smile.

  She picked up a box of hardtack and carried it up the steps. He followed with an armful of packages. She helped relieve him of the parcels, laying them beside the hardtack. Her hand brushed his arm, and he savored the sweetness of her touch. He’d tried to forget her so many times he’d lost count. Now he understood why he never could. The woman was unforgettable.

  He studied her face, noting her red-rimmed eyes.

  “Sleep well?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  That stopped him. He scowled.

  “So that’s how it going to be.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss.”

  “Yeah, loss of sleep, you mean.”

  The stubborn slant of her jaw remained a moment longer and then she dropped her gaze.

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “To me it is.”

  Their gazes met and held.

  How long had she been staring at him with that quizzical expression? More importantly, how long had he been making calf eyes at her?

  “Come here,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

  She followed him to the rear of the wagon, where her freckled horse stood.

  He lifted the Appaloosa’s rear right leg. “Look at that.”

  She studied the new shoe and freshly clipped hoof.

  “Beautiful. Thank you, Thomas.”

  The way she said his name, kindly, with none of her earlier venom, made his stomach jump. He dropped the hoof.

  “I got you some things.”

  The frown returned, forcing the smile from her lips. “I told you, I don’t need anything.”

  He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “Whether you like it or not, you’re my responsibility now.”

  She matched his stance, standing with him toe-to-toe. “Well, I won’t have it.”

  The woman was as unreasonable as a freshly branded mule.

  He drummed his fingers slowly on his upper arm. “So you want me to drop everything and leave my business to help you, but you don’t want me to buy you any gear. That about it?”

  Her scowl wavered as the illogic of her position hit home. At last her shoulders sagged.

  “I don’t want to be in your debt.”

  “And I don’t want you riding to the Black Hills and back without a proper coat.”

  Her eyes relayed defeat, but still she kept her mouth clamped shut.

  He dropped the resentment from his voice. Instead he spoke softly, as he used to when discussing important matters with her. “Sooner we leave, sooner we’re on her trail.”

  Her head dropped, and he knew he’d won this round before she opened her mouth. “All right then, but I can use your kitchen. You keeping me out of the one place I feel at home is just stubbornness, Thomas, and you know it.”

  He rubbed his nose as he fought the urge to deny her request. “Only if you’ll accept what I offer.”

  Her gaze flashed to the wagon and the neatly tied parcels.

  “I just said I would.”

  “All of it.”

  “Yes, very well.”

  He grinned and handed over six large packages, then carried the remaining bundles to the porch.

  “I’ll see to the horses. And we’ll head out after lunch.” He led the team to the barn.

  He took a minute to check the bridles for wear and inspected the rest of his tack. When all the horses were happily munching hay, he left, wondering if Sarah had yet opened one particular bundle containing two New York garters and silk stockings.

  His mouth went dry as a thrill of excitement rolled through him. He remembered her perfect leg and thought that silk could not be softer than her skin. A stirring of his flesh forced him to hesitate before leaving the barn. His gelding lifted his head, casting his big brown eyes upon him.

  “It’s not like she’ll let me touch her leg again anyway.”

  The horse dropped his head to grab another hank of hay, then returned his attention to his master.

  “But I can imagine, can’t I?”

  Chapter Six

  Lucie trembled in her thin cotton dress. The warrior set no fire against night. He held out pemmican to her. She recognized this combination of dried crushed berries and powdered buffalo jerky, since she had been responsible for making most of Following Calf’s winter supply.

  She never refused food now and devoured two pemmican biscuits. Eagle Dancer sat upon his buffalo rope, chewing as he stared boldly at her. She grew so nervous under his perusal she could barely swallow.

  The sun crept low over the horizon. Soon she would be alone in the darkness with this man. She feared him and what he might do to her person. What chance did she have against a warrior?

  None.

  For some reason, she glanced about them—searching for what, she did not know. Rescue? Her mother? There was nothing but the waving grass and empty prairie. The cottonwood by the river now stood tall and frightening in silhouette. At last her gaze fell on him again and she met his intent stare. Her breath caught.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she begged.

  He frowned. “I will not.”

  But she knew it hurt to lay with a man and that his words were lies.

  “What will you do?”

  His slow sensual smile froze her blood.

  “I am only twelve winters.”

  Actually she’d turned thirteen in August, but she would not tell him that.

  He frowned.

  “I am a child.”

  “Then listen, child. You sleep beside me this night. You rest here.” He placed his open palm against his ribs, beneath his extended arm.

  Did he really mean sleep or did he mean to fall upon her? Her time with Following Calf had taught her caution.

  “Why did you buy me?”

  She bit her lip, hoping that he would say his sister needed a slave or his mother had lost a daughter. But he only stared at her with wide dark eyes.

  “I wanted you.”

  She gulped and he laughed at the sound she made in her throat.

  It was like being told you’d hang, but not right away. The sentence hung over her head as he lay down in the pocket of his furs and motioned for her to follow.

  “Come,” he said, holding open the flap.

  The night air grew cool, but she hesitated.

  “Obey me,” he said.

  She did not dare defy him, and so she slunk forward like a whipped dog, inching into the place he made for her. The great hide descended, enveloping them together.

  She had never slept beside anyone but her mother. Following Calf had given Lucie her own hide. Now she lay still as a chunk of wood as the scent of leather and of the man beside her mingled with the musty smell of buffalo. He drew her close, to the place he said she would rest—beside his heart.

  She felt it beating steadily as her own heartbeat pounded like the hooves of a jogging pony. After a few minutes of inactivity, he stroked her head. She shivered with trepidation. This is when it would happen. She would be soiled and no decent man would have her.

  She sniffed, afraid to weep.

  “Rest.”

  His arm slipped from her hair to drape across her middle. The weight of it pressed uncomfortably against her stomach, but she dared not move.

  The warrior’s breath puffed against her head, and she knew he slept. She exhaled her reli
ef and allowed her own eyes to close. Before sleep took her, she thanked God for sparing her innocence.

  When she woke, she lay curled in his arms like his pet cat. She tried to escape, but he roused at her wiggling effort to slip from his embrace. His grip tightened. One eye opened and he frowned.

  She said nothing, only stared up mutely, waiting.

  His arm lifted like the drawbridge to a castle and she escaped. He did not touch her again that morning.

  They journeyed six days along an unknown river and across open plains. Each night he held her close but never violated her person, if you didn’t count his stroking her hair or cheek.

  Far off, shining blue and purple, rose the Rocky Mountains. Lucie glanced back over her shoulder for the hundredth time that day.

  How would her mother ever find her in this wilderness? She had seen no whites since the first night of their capture and spoken no English since that day.

  When her mother came, would Lucie even remember how to speak?

  A voice in her head, the evil voice that always whispered fearful things, spoke. She won’t find you. You’ll live with these savages forever unless they kill you.

  She scowled, wishing the voice would go away and bother someone else. Her mother would find her, was trying right now. The last thing she’d said to Lucie was to stay put and she’d be back for her.

  But what if they had killed her?

  That voice again. Lucie straightened, her long neck craning to see behind her. Her mother had been only a few feet from her. Lucie thought that meant she had escaped. Now doubt whispered in her ear. Perhaps they had killed her like they’d killed Kathryn Jackson. She trembled at the possibilities.

  Eagle Dancer drew in the horse and turned to look at her. The expression she once thought fierce now seemed more concerned. He threw his bare leg over the horse’s neck and slid off, pulling her down by the arm an instant later.

  He pointed at the tears on her cheek.

  “No,” he said.

  She nodded and he wiped her face.

  At the river, he motioned Lucie to follow and she did, grateful for an opportunity to drink. She dug a small hole in the sandy bank and waited while water filled the gap, then she scooped the clear liquid into her palm and drank.

  Replete at last, she turned to see Eagle Dancer wash himself. He stood naked in the river, and Lucie turned away, but not before seeing his lean, muscular shank.

  She waited on the bank until he returned and drew out his killing shirt. That was what Lucie called it, one of the brightly dyed shirts the men wore for war and entering villages. His buckskin looked blood red and bore a hideous tasseled fringe of human hair. If she understood correctly, these long strands were the trophies of war, enemies killed in battle.

  Lucie searched the front for an auburn strand but found none. Eagle Dancer put on his leggings for the first time and combed out his long dark hair.

  She straightened as the meaning of his actions became clear. They neared the journey’s end.

  She feared what would come. Would the women and children of this village taunt and torment her like the last?

  The warrior confirmed her suspicion a moment later when he braided his hair, adding feathers to the ends, and painted the forelegs of his horse with red stripes.

  Wherever he was taking her, they had arrived. She searched the hills about them, but saw no smoke, heard no dogs and smelled no horses.

  After he finished preening, he turned to her. A cold shiver of dread inched up her spine. Eagle Dancer’s big hands gripped the tangle her hair had become.

  He pressed a firm hand on her shoulder, forcing her to sit before him. He lifted a brush of porcupine quills and set to work tugging first at the ends and then moving steadily upward toward her scalp. He took no extra measures to hurt her as Following Calf often had. Lucie lifted her skirt above her knee to inspect the progress of the bruises left from the stick the woman had last beat her with. Who would own her next?

  She shivered and Eagle Dancer laid a hand on her shoulder, but whether to still or reassure her, she could not guess.

  When the knots were all pulled out, he divided Lucie’s hair and added grease before braiding two plaits. He finished his ministrations by placing a ring of blue and gray feathers upon her head.

  Thus made presentable by the standards of the savages, she was again commanded to walk behind her captor’s horse. She wondered if she had made a grave error by not escaping in the night as he slept. The urge to flee became more desperate with each passing step. Under cover of dark she could have eluded him, even stolen his horse. They had slit Kathryn’s throat for refusing to walk. What would they do to a runaway slave?

  She shuddered as possibilities danced in her mind.

  But where would she go? The way back to the wagon trail tangled in her mind like a ball of yarn. Even if she escaped recapture and found the trail, how would she find her mother?

  She hunched behind the warrior. Fear kept her from escaping. Her yearning to be free did not overwhelm her desire to stay alive. During these three harsh months of captivity, the fright had settled into a constant wariness, like the soldiers on guard duty at the forts. She saw no immediate danger but was always ready for it to present itself.

  Perhaps she was not his slave, but some kind of sacrifice. Once she had watched in horror as Following Calf had butchered the family dog. They ate the meat in a barbaric feast. If they could so easily kill their dog, how much simpler would it be to kill an enemy slave?

  Her terrors echoed in her mind. She had not the courage to ask Eagle Dancer about the fate awaiting her. He seemed to have forgotten her now. His horse’s ears pricked, and Lucie listened. It was several minutes before she heard the shouts of children. A lone guard stood on a hilltop beside the river. He waved, and Eagle Dancer waved back.

  A cry came from the sentinel. The call roused the village. Soon they streamed over the hill, children first, running on firm brown legs. Next came the women, lining the path, waving and calling in something like a yodel.

  Lucie resisted the urge to cover her ears as they paraded down the Sioux version of Main Street, stopping before a teepee of white leather. Scalps fluttered from the hide and grotesque, crudely drawn figures danced along the leather canvas.

  Eagle Dancer slid down to greet two women. The similarity of their features made Lucie think they were mother and daughter. They crossed their forearms and placed open palms upon Eagle Dancer’s chest in a salutation with which Lucie was now familiar. This was his family. A wife and mother?

  She hoped so.

  The women turned to her with poorly disguised curiosity. Lucie’s stomach clenched, and the rapid beat of her heart made her breathing quicken.

  It was all she could do not to grip the horse’s tail to keep him from pulling her into the crowd of strangers.

  The women tugged at her faded calico dress and lifted her braids. Despite Eagle Dancer’s trouble, her new style did not keep the forest belles from marveling at the color of her red-gold hair.

  She glanced back to Eagle Dancer, hopeful he would intervene before the women smothered her, but he drifted toward the men and finally disappeared.

  Lucie could not breathe. The women pushed and shoved to get a look at her. Spots danced before her eyes, and she feared she would faint.

  The woman who had greeted Eagle Dancer first grasped Lucie’s arm and pulled her through the crowd, drawing her into the large central tent.

  There, Eagle Dancer waited wearing a somber expression, which only made him look more dangerous. Her body went cold as if dipped in ice water as she stood between the wall of women behind her and the ring of warriors before her.

  Chapter Seven

  In Sacramento, Thomas arranged an appointment with Colonel Jessup of the U.S. Army. Sarah included herself in the meeting.

  “How long has your girl been missing?” He directed his questions to Thomas, having ignored Sarah since the introductions.

  “Since May twenty-fifth.�
�� Three and a half months already. Sarah knit her hands to keep from fussing.

  The man spun the end of his full mustache, curving it until it resembled a fishhook.

  “And thirteen, you say? She’s likely dead. If she’s not dead, well…” He gave the mustache another twist. “You’d best presume her dead. After those savages have had at her, you won’t want her back.”

  Sarah’s rage bubbled over; at the center was her own failure to keep her daughter safe. The day they’d taken Lucie had been the second time in her life she’d wanted to die, and both times her daughter had kept her alive. Now she rose from her seat beside the door and stepped forward, her boots reporting like gunfire on the wooden planking. Jessup had time only to lift an eyebrow.

  “Well, I do want her back, Colonel.”

  His tone dripped with condescension. “Mrs. West, I met that Oatman girl, Olive. What’s a gal like that going to do? She’s ruined. My opinion, they should have left her in that desert.”

  “I’ve had quite enough of your opinion,” said Sarah. “If I had my way, we’d leave you in the desert. Come, Thomas, we’ll do better without this bigoted, impotent little bureaucrat.”

  Jessup surged to his feet roaring like a buffalo. “If you were a man, I’d make you answer for that.”

  Sarah made a face. “But I’m not a man, just a woman who is best forgotten—like my daughter.”

  The colonel turned to Thomas. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

  Tired of being ignored, Sarah jabbed a finger at the navy wool covering his chest. “I will not abandon her.”

  “If you go into the Black Hills, they’ll take you, too.”

  “Good day, Colonel,” said Thomas, ending the discussion. He clasped Sarah’s elbow and steered her out into the street.

  There in the bright sunshine, Sarah still shook with rage.

  “It’s the same everywhere I go,” she said. “Why do I continue to hope someone will help me?”

  Thomas’s stern look stopped her in midstride.

  “I’m helping you.”

  All the fight drained from her, and she landed hard on a crate before a druggist’s. Thomas leaned against the wall as he watched a cart drawn by a lame mule rattle by, then turned his attention on Sarah.