Whispering Sun

by Rita Karnopp

  Alert, yet heavy with thought, Dirk hurried back to Sarah. He felt a smile play at his lips when he pulled her from the shadows of the shrubs. He lifted her into his arms and drank in the feel of her, the fragrant scent of her. A heated shiver of wanting ran through him. A flush of guilt riddled him. At the moment his world seemed to be in turmoil with itself and for reasons he couldn't, or wouldn't, examine too closely. He decided now wasn't the time to let it distract him.

  Dirk tucked the blanket around Sarah, lifted her limp body onto his horse, and then quickly followed with his own tired limbs. The rapid chattering of the Elf Owl's night call once again broke the silence. The lonely sound evoked lonesome feelings.

  * * *

  Sarah fought against the pressure that forced her down. Every part of her body felt heavy and bruised. She couldn't stop the feeling of falling…falling just like Henry Junior. An unbearable flush of heat surged through her veins. Images of her brother rekindled old pain. "…wasn't my fault," she muttered.

  * * *

  Sarah's disjointed words were barely audible, but Dirk understood her anguish. He felt at kindred with this white woman. When Trail Walker had started teaching Sarah; he shared her progress with Dirk. In ways he knew her as well as Trail Walker. In ways Dirk knew her not at all.

  Sarah was being forced to search for a future, marred by a violent past. Not unlike his own fate. He pulled her tight against him, uncertain which nightmare tormented her soul. Was he doing the right thing by returning her to the fort? His mind filled with doubts as he encouraged Leather to cross the creek.

  The warmth of her body filtered through the blanket and permeated his senses. His fingers lingered in the silken mass of curls and he drank in the herbal scent of her.

  All too soon, Dirk discerned the shadows of the fourteen-foot high boulders and the two front bastions on diagonal corners of the fort. How anyone would willingly live locked within such walls seemed incomprehensible to him.

  Coaxing the horses into a thicket area, Dirk dismounted, pulling Sarah into his arms. In a quick movement, he carefully placed her, stomach down, over the stiff saddle. Taking another blanket, he pulled it snug, tucking it under the saddle, making sure it secured her to the nervous animal. He bound her hands to the stirrups, bringing his catch rope under the mare's belly, tightened it around her legs, then up around the saddle horn, preventing her body from slipping off. It wasn't the best thing for Sarah's bruised ribs, but necessary.

  Dirk slid his fingers over the soft mare's nostrils, then guided them a short distance from the front gate. He tucked a white eagle feather into Sarah's hand bindings, then brushed a light kiss across her slightly parted lips.

  "Goodbye, Whispering Sun," he said, audible for his ears only.

  Hearing the soldier's footsteps marching along wooden planks within the safety of the fort, Dirk released the animal's reins. His movements were that of a Blackfeet, he blended into the night.

  Gypsy's loud neigh and stomping shod hooves broke the silence. Within seconds the gates opened, Sarah disappeared behind the walls.

  Dirk watched with mixed emotions. Again he must watch her from afar, hoping to get a glimpse of her beauty and spirit when she escaped the fort. What excitement she created when he watched her ride in wild abandon, across the flat, green valley. Free under the big open sky. He yearned to hold her close, just one more time, then turned abruptly away from the fort, away from her, angry and frustrated he had feelings of want for a white woman.

  Under night's protection, Dirk made his way back to Leather, and then hastily pulled himself into the saddle. He had to get away, away from his thoughts of Sarah. What foolishness made him even consider he had a chance to win the love of a white woman? A fine, white woman like Sarah wouldn't have anything to do with a half-breed. He was a Blackfeet warrior, despite the white man's clothing he wore. No matter what language he spoke. And, he had a job to do. He couldn't let a woman confuse his thinking. He'd forget about Sarah…he had to.

  * * *

  Sarah struggled against the grogginess that still gripped her. She opened her eyes with considerable effort. She winced against the dull throbbing inside her skull. Looking to her right she gazed at a blurry male figure standing near the bed. He wrung out a cloth in a familiar, flowered water basin on the night table. She breathed in, hoping to smell a deep woodsy cinnamon. Instead, it brought pain and the unmistakable scent of Doctor Bentley's pipe.

  "Where am I?" she asked. Her throat felt strangely dry and sore. Her head throbbed with a feeling of being squeezed rhythmically by two large hands. Bindings pressed tight against her ribs, making breathing difficult. Sarah blinked several times, her vision sharpened.

  Doctor Bentley laid a cool cloth across her forehead. "You're going to be fine, Sarah. Take it easy and lie still."

  She concentrated on his lip movements. He spoke slowly, as he always did, and she felt grateful for his efforts.

  "Is Gypsy hurt? She didn't break her leg, did she?"

  "My dear, aren't you worried whether you broke a leg?"

  As always, his eyes were kind and gentle. Sarah could see his mouth form a laugh. She couldn't help wonder what it sounded like.

  "I want to see her." Sarah bolted, then moaned as nausea and dizziness engulfed her.

  Large hands gently pushed her back into the pillows. "You must stay quiet, Sarah. Do you understand?" he asked. His expressions were attentive and caring. He reached over and picked up a small bottle and a spoon.

  She nodded. The small effort caused another wave of nausea. "But, Gypsy…is she…you didn't tell me…did Gypsy…?" She fought the threat of tears. She watched the beginning of a smile tipped the corner of his mouth, forcing his thick, white mustache to stretch above his thin lips.

  "Your Gypsy is just fine," he said, measuring the liquid into the spoon. She brought you here and raised quite a ruckus outside the gate so you could be helped. Now, take this and then tell me what happened." He put one arm around her shoulders and raised her upright.

  The bitter medicine quickly spread soothing warmth through her chest. Confused, Sarah struggled to understand what Doctor Bentley said. Her head ached and the nausea made it hard to concentrate. She did understand that Gypsy wasn't hurt, that's all that really mattered to Sarah. She thought for a moment, and then a feeling of bewilderment gripped her. "I don't know how I got here."

  "Tell me, who bandaged your ribs like that?" his brow creased with confusion, betraying his concern.

  Weariness enveloped her as she tried to concentrate. She caught the words who bandaged. "I don't know. I think…there was a man. Yes, I remember a man with black hair. He smelled of the woods and…cottonwood sap." Her voice weakened, the words trailing away, becoming inaudible with the lack of effort to make them clear.

  "Well, you've had quite a shock. Once you get some rest perhaps your memory will clear, and you'll be able to tell me more." He reached over and patted her arm. "Now, you lie back and close your eyes. I want you asleep before I leave this room."

  She no longer watched his lips, striving to understand his words. His gestures were comforting and her lids grew heavy. A warm drowsiness pulled her back into calm, floating darkness.

  * * *

  Doctor Bentley watched as her lashes dropped closed, spreading a fan across her too pale cheeks. She'd been through a lot, he wondered what.

  Whoever wrapped her ribs knew what he was doing. Couldn't have done the job better myself, he told himself. Then there were all those scratches on her arms. He'd removed numerous thorns from her skin. What had happened out there? He watched her with fatherly feelings.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, and then pulled Sarah's small hand into his. His heart ached for her. Surely her life was close to hell as anyone he knew, yet, despite it all, she had a spunk that he admired. Such youth and beauty, yet she had such a tragic past. Without her fiery temper and that persistent need to know why, she surely would have regressed into a world of her own. He could thank Trail Walk
er for most of her growth.

  Doctor Bentley shook his head, and then looked around the lavish room that was merely a showcase for the world. His gaze traveled across walls lined with shelves holding petty dolls and expensive trinkets. He looked at furnishings of rare cherry wood. The glowing finish, accented lacy curtains and ruffled canopies. It was a room most young ladies dreamed of. But, even an old codger like himself realized it lacked the most important ingredient…love.

  Releasing Sarah's hand, he twisted his long fingers together, and then looked down at them. How useless they had been, four years ago, when Sarah's brother had died. There had been no hope for the boy, but there was hope for Sarah. He tried every avenue possible to get her hearing restored. He'd let her down. He still clung to new rays of hope, writing letters to specialist he'd hear of, asking for help. Inevitably, their answers always come back the same. The young lady is experiencing 'guilt deafness'. Time, love and understanding could very well bring her hearing back. However, there is always the possibility she will never hear again."

  Doctor Bentley pressed his tired head into his palms. Tears filled his eyes. The persistent feeling of failure invaded his thoughts.

  He'd have a talk with Sarah's mother. He didn't expect Rachel to be too concerned, nor would she be apt to take his advice on how to help the girl, but he had to try…again.

  Rising, he pulled the light blanket up, tucking it beneath Sarah's chin. "Sleep well, dear. I'll be back to check on you later," he whispered with a tenderness she'd never hear.

  As he approached the sitting parlor, Doctor Bentley couldn't help but stop for a moment to admire the beauty of the woman sitting before the roaring fire.

  Rachel sat straight-backed. His gaze traveled across her bare shoulders and paused at her low-cut bodice. He sucked in a quick breath. Her dresses always emphasized her incredibly tiny waist, shapely hips, and seductive breasts.

  Her hair reminded him of light, golden wheat. It curled and twisted in soft cascades around her perfect oval face, then pulled back and pinned, allowing the long, curling ringlets to bounce and drop seductively around her shoulders. Her lips were thin, almost too thin, yet when she smiled her beauty transcended. Her statuesque up-turned nose matched her personality.

  Even at forty-two, Mrs. Bryson was a beholding sight. Men found one look, one smile from her and they were captured under her spell.

  "Won't you sit down, Doctor Bentley?"

  He watched Rachel pat a spot beside her on the settee. Started by her words, he wondered how long he'd stood there, stupidly staring at her. "Thank you, Rachel," he managed, hoping she wouldn't notice the flush he felt creeping across his cheeks. He walked the length of the hardwood floor, slightly dragging his right leg.

  "Is your leg bothering you again, Tom?" The even whiteness of her smile captivated his thoughts.

  "Some, I guess. Damn bullet should have been removed years ago. Too late now."

  "Just the thought of a bullet in there makes my skin crawl." Her gaze dropped to his thigh.

  Her stare made him uncomfortable. Glancing away he caught a glimpse of a white feather nearly hidden beneath Rachel's full skirt. "That the feather they found with Sarah?" he asked. He noticed her thin lips grew even thinner as she picked up the eagle feather.

  "Yes." She looked at it with curiosity. "It seems like everyone is being rescued by this hero, including dumb little deaf girls who go out riding when they shouldn't." She tossed the feather down, as though it offended her to touch it.

  Doctor Bentley retrieved if from the floor. He pulled the startling white vane through his cupped hand, and then rubbed his thumb lightly across the downy portion. He detected a scent of cinnamon and pine. "I wonder who this man is. He wrapped Sarah's bruised ribs expertly. Perhaps this hero is also a doctor," he said, moving to a chair opposite Rachel.

  "He wrapped Sarah's ribs? Is that what you said? Why, he'd have to undress her to do that, wouldn't he?"

  Her exaggerated shocked expression didn't fool him. "Rest assured, Rachel. The man who helped Sarah has a reputation for being a gentleman."

  "Did Sarah tell you what he looked like?" Her voice held a note of excitement.

  "Right now she can't remember a thing. She doesn't even remember being brought to her room." He watched Rachel shift uncomfortably. Her obvious annoyance to have to ask for this information made him chuckle to himself. "Why don't you go up and check on her?"

  "Don't be absurd! She isn't a baby. If she needed something she'd ask." Rachel busied herself with smoothing her skirt, refusing to meet his eyes.

  "Rachel, that girl needs you more than you know. She needs warmth and understanding. I just received a letter from a specialist in Boston, Doctor Phelper. He wrote that Sarah could regain her hearing. He believes she's feeling guilty about her brother's death. Until she can come to terms with the tragedy, she'll most likely remain deaf."

  "Stop, Doctor Bentley! I don't know why you insist on writing those damn letters. They are false hope and you know it. Why can't you face it? Sarah is deaf and that's all there is to it!"

  "I don't agree. She hasn't received any physical injury to her ears. If we can only convince her it wasn't her fault, maybe then she'd¾"

  "Stop!" Rachel screamed. "Stop it, Tom! Once and for all get it through that thick skull of yours. I don't want to hear any more of this rubbish! Besides, it was her fault!"

  "Damn it, Rachel! You know that's untrue and unfair. It was an accident. One she shouldn't have to pay for the rest of her life. All you can think about is hiding the fact that you're old enough to have a daughter Sarah's age. Rachel, you can't continue to act like she's an embarrassment to you. She needs your love and approval."

  "Being a doctor doesn't give you the right to tell me how I should treat my…treat Sarah."

  "See! You can't even bring yourself to call her your daughter. Is it so awful to admit you have a child? Sarah is special. And Lord knows she certainly is a beautiful young woman and getting more beautiful every day."

  Rachel jerked to her feet, and then took an abrupt step toward him. Her powder blue eyes filled with contempt. "You have no right to talk to me like this. I do the best I can with this dreadful situation. She dropped back onto the brocade sofa. "Whenever things are going smoothly Sarah has to show off some dynamic trick or create trouble, and everyone starts talking all over again."

  "She's screaming for attention. Rachel, you may not realize this, but the men like and respect Sarah. She can throw a knife or fire a rifle near as well, if not better, than most of them. Have you seen the way that girl can ride a horse?"

  "Oh, Tom, how can you sit there and support the way that girl acts. Maybe if she'd just once act like a lady¾"

  "You haven't got it figured out yet, have you?"

  "What are you talking about? Figured what out?"

  "Why do you think Sarah insists on wearing those trousers or pursues roping, riding and shooting? She's trying to take Henry Junior's place. She wants the General to notice her. It's obvious she's trying to be a son to him. How can you be so blind?" He shook his head and leaned back against the expensive, stuffed chair. He watched Rachel rub the palm of one hand over the knuckles of the other, unable to look at him.

  "What her father does, or doesn't do, is none of my concern."

  Tom slid to the edge of his chair and rested his elbows on his thighs. Slowly he leaned toward Rachel. "But don't you see? It should be your concern. That's what I've been trying to say for the past four years. You have to try and convince Sarah the accident wasn't her fault. Show her you care about her and don't blame her for the loss of Henry Junior." Doctor Bentley realized he's never known a more self-centered person as the one in front of him. The unsympathetic expression frozen on her face told him everything.

  "It's getting late, Tom. I think you'd better come back in the morning. The door won't be locked, come when you see fit. I'm sleeping late, and you know the General leaves the house early." She rose, turned her back to him and held her hands u
p to the heat of the fire.

  "I'm sorry if I've upset you, Rachel. I want to be your friend. I want what's right for Sarah and you." He reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Is that new cream helping your dry skin?" he asked, hoping to bring some warmth back into their conversation.

  "Yes, thank you, Tom. It has helped. If it's not the dry, endless winds during the summer tearing at my skin, it's the bitter, cold torture of winter. Does anyone really like living in this God-awful country?" She turned to face him, her gaze meeting gray, sympathetic eyes.

  "I must admit, it's not much of a place for a genteel woman like you, Rachel. But you shouldn't worry. You're every bit as beautiful as you were when you came to the Territory of Montana, if not more so." He hated feeding her inflated ego, but years of experiencing her tongue had taught him that syrupy flattery soothed her temper. She squeezed his arm with her slender fingers and he felt a warmth rush through him. It angered him to respond to her false charms.

  "Thank you, Tom. You're a dear to say such a sweet thing. I'll see you tomorrow. We'll discuss our bad girl then."

  He noticed her smile revealed the compliment went straight to her vain mind. "You know, Rachel, Sarah isn't intentionally bad. She simply needs her freedom. She loves riding Gypsy."

  "I wish that Indian had never given that mare to Sarah. He only encourages her wildness."

  "That Indian's name is Trail Walker and he's a good man. He's done a lot for Sarah. He believes she needs fun."

  "Fun!" Rachel's smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. "What Sarah needs is to grow up. When she's married to Giles and he takes her away from all this pampering, she'll find out what life's all about, and it's not fun!"

  "She needs your love, Rachel. She needs her mother." His mellow baritone edged with control.

  "I give her everything a girl could possibly want. She never played with the dolls or the toys. She's never wanted to wear any of the beautiful dresses I've ordered especially for her. How can you say I don't show her love?"