Reckless Desire

by Madeline Baker

"You don't think that man will come back, do you?" Mary asked.

  "No," Cloud Walker replied. But he continued to be watchful and cautious.

  Winter came in a rush of rain and wind. Thunder rumbled in darkened skies, punctuated by brilliant shafts of lightning.

  Mary snuggled closer to Cloud Walker, awed by the raw power of the storm that raged all around them, making her feel small and helpless. How would they survive out here all alone? What if they ran out of food? What if they got sick? They could die out here and no one would ever know.

  "What is it?" Cloud Walker asked as she stirred restlessly in his arms.

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "Honest, I'm fine." How could she tell him she was afraid when it seemed he feared nothing at all?

  Cloud Walker held Mary close, warming her with the heat of his body. He sensed her fears and could not fault her for being afraid. Always she had been surrounded by her family, secure in their love and in the knowledge that they would be there in times of need. Now they were alone, utterly and completely alone. No, he could not blame Mary for being afraid. He, too, had worried about the future, not for himself, but for Mary, knowing all too well that if anything happened to him, she would probably not survive on her own. It was a thought that haunted him more and more as the days went by.

  The cold days of winter passed slowly. There were many days when they never left the shelter of the lodge. At those times they told each other stories of their childhood, or spun dreams of the future. They talked often of the baby growing under Mary's heart, wondering if it would be a boy or a girl, speculating on what the world would be like when their child reached adulthood.

  On one blustery night, Cloud Walker told Mary how Heammawihio had created the earth. In the beginning, Cloud Walker said, there was nothing but water and sky. No grass. No trees. No mountains. No animals or people. Suddenly a Person appeared floating on the water. He was surrounded by birds and geese and swans and ducks and all the birds that can swim. After a long time, the Person grew tired of floating on the water and asked the birds to look for some earth. The big birds dove into the water, but they came up with nothing. One by one, all the birds tried until finally a small duck dove into the water and surfaced with a bit of mud in its bill. The Person was pleased and he took the mud and worked it in his fingers until it was dry, and as the Person worked the mud, it grew larger and larger, and when he had a handful, he sprinkled it over the water and made little piles of earth here and there. When the mud dried, the dust made land, and the Person sat back and watched it spread until there was solid land as far as he could see.

  Mary clapped her hands when Cloud Walker finished the story. "Tell me another," she said, for Cloud Walker's stories took her mind off the wind and the rain and the vast emptiness that surrounded them.

  He had started to tell of Child of the Waters when Mary gasped and doubled over.

  "What is it?" Cloud Walker asked anxiously.

  "The baby's coming," Mary said, groaning as another pain caught her unawares. She reached for his hand, holding on as though she would never let go.

  Cloud Walker watched Mary anxiously as the minutes went by, certain he would rather face a charging grizzly than watch Mary writhe in pain as she labored to bring their child into the world. Between contractions, he talked to her, telling her how much he loved her, how much he needed her, assuring her that everything would be all right, sponging the sweat from her brow. When the pains came, he let her hold onto him, unmindful of the long scratches her nails gouged in his hands and arms.

  Mary groaned as another contraction threatened to tear her apart. "I forgot how much it hurts," she gasped, her hands gripping his with surprising strength.

  He could think of nothing to say in reply. Instead he squeezed her hand sympathetically, wishing he could bear the pain for her.

  It was near dawn when Mary gave one last hoarse cry of pain and their child made its way into the world. Cloud Walker gazed at the new life in his hands. It was a boy, wrinkled and red and beautiful. He held the baby for several seconds before he realized the child wasn't breathing.

  Mary sat up, her face as white as the snow that covered the plains. "Is it . . .?"

  Cloud Walker felt his heart go cold. Grasping the child by its ankles, he held the baby upside down and swatted the infant's backside. Nothing. He glanced at Mary, his own eyes mirroring the fear he read in hers as he swatted the baby's bottom again. And then again, harder.

  "Maheo," he murmured helplessly. "Please."

  One more swat on the baby's dimpled bottom, and a lusty cry filled the air. Tears streamed down Mary's cheeks as Cloud Walker cut the cord and placed their son in her arms.

  "I love you," Cloud Walker said, his voice husky with emotion. "Both of you."

  "I love you," Mary replied wearily. "Thank you for a lovely son." She gazed into the child's eyes. "I think we'll call him Adam," she said. "Because he'll be the first of many."

  "Adam," Cloud Walker repeated softly. "It is a good name."

  Swallowing his own tears of joy, Cloud Walker disposed of the cord and afterbirth, washed the baby, and then Mary. He felt awkward as he wrapped his son in a blanket of soft rabbit fur, then placed the child in Mary's arms once more.

  A son! he thought exultantly. I have a son.

  In the days that followed, Cloud Walker thought often of taking Mary back to her family in Bear Valley. It had been foolish to take her away from home. Their child might have died. Mary could get sick, and there would be no one to help them. In Bear Valley, she had friends and family. There was a doctor available. Again and again he thought of his son. What if the child became ill? He was no medicine man, he knew nothing of healing. He did not mind risking his own life in the wilds of Hell Canyon, but he was no longer willing to risk the lives of his wife and child. Each day Mary became more precious to him, his son more dear.

  He told Mary he was taking her back to Bear Valley in the spring, but she wouldn't hear of it.

  Returning to civilization would put Cloud Walker's life in danger, and she refused to discuss it. Her mother and father had lived alone in the wilderness and survived, and so could they.

  Gradually winter gave way to spring. The sun warmed the canyon. Trees put on new gowns of emerald green, and flowers poked their heads above the earth, faces lifting toward the sky.

  It was on one such sunny day that Cloud Walker took his bow and went hunting. Mary held their son to her breast as Cloud Walker rode away. It was the first time they had been separated in months. He had not wanted to leave her alone, but she had assured him she would be fine. At any rate, they needed the meat.

  Humming softly, Mary spread a blanket in the sun and placed the baby on it, smiling with pride as Adam waved his tiny hands and feet in the air. He was a beautiful child, with curly black hair and deep brown eyes. Already he was smiling at her and making soft cooing sounds that filled her heart with delight.

  While the baby napped in the sun, Mary opened the door to the lodge to air it out. Feeling suddenly industrious, she carried their sleeping robes outside and spread them over a bush. Using a leafy branch, she swept the floor of the lodge, smoothing the dirt. Laughter bubbled in her throat as she worked. Who would have thought it possible to be so happy with so little? She had no furniture, few clothes other than those on her back, none of the luxuries she had once known. Only shelter from the elements, the barest of necessities to sustain life, a wonderful son, and a husband she adored.

  Peeking out of the lodge to check on Adam, she uttered a wordless cry of fear as she saw a mountain lion prowling through their camp, his nostrils twitching as he smelled the remains of the fish they had eaten the night before.

  She froze, hoping the big cat would eat the fish heads and bones and leave. And it might have done just that if the baby hadn't awakened and begun whimpering softly.

  The mountain lion's interest was immediately drawn to the squirming child and it padded silently toward the baby, its long p
ink tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, its nostrils flared as it caught the scent of milk.

  The baby screamed as the big cat's tongue swept across his face.

  With a scream of her own, Mary ran from the lodge, the branch in her hands.

  ''Go away!" she cried, swinging the branch at the cat's head. "Go away!"

  The mountain lion spun around with an angry growl, one huge paw batting at the branch. With ease it knocked the limb from Mary's grasp. She scrambled after the branch, felt the animal's claws rip into the back of her leg as her hands closed around the limb. The animal was on her now, its body pinning her to the ground, blotting everything from her gaze but the sight of yellow fangs.

  "Oh, God, help me," she murmured, and closed her eyes as the cat's breath filled her nostrils.

  She was trembling violently as fear and panic took hold of her mind, and then, more welcome than anything she had ever known, came the wild war cry of a Cheyenne warrior, followed by the hiss of an arrow cutting through the air.

  She was sobbing when the big cat fell across her body. And then Cloud Walker was there, freeing her from the cat's weight, lifting her into his arms. His face, drained of color, was the last thing she saw before she fainted.

  It was dark when she regained consciousness. Cloud Walker sat at her side, their son cradled in his arm.

  "Is he all right?" Mary asked anxiously.

  "Yes," Cloud Walker said. "Only hungry."

  Relief washed through Mary as she took her son and placed him to her breast. He was so dear, so sweet. What would she have done if he had been killed?

  Cloud Walker's eyes were fathomless as he watched Mary nurse their son. He would never forget the horror of riding into camp and seeing Mary struggling with the mountain lion, never forget the scream that had filled the air, sending him back to camp as fast as his horse would carry him. It had been a near thing. Had he been a minute later, she might have been killed, and their child, too.

  He glanced at her leg. The cat's claws had ripped a long gash in her flesh. He had washed it out as best he could and bandaged it with a strip of cloth torn from Mary's petticoat.

  "Tomorrow," he said flatly. "Tomorrow we will start for Bear Valley."

  "No," Mary said, shaking her head. "We can't."

  "Tomorrow," he repeated, and left the lodge.

  Outside, he gazed up at the vast indigo sky. He did not want to leave this place. He felt at home here, safe, free of civilization. But he could no longer place Mary's life and the life of his son in jeopardy. It was time to go home. Time to face whatever the future held.

  32

  It took every bit of will power I possessed to be polite to the man standing at my door. It was the lawman again. Hayes, his name was. He came to our house regularly, checking to see if Cloud Walker had returned, searching our house and the lodge out back.

  His presence infuriated Shadow, as did the "wanted" posters Hayes had distributed in town. The flyers contained a detailed description of Cloud Walker and stated he was wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance of Frank Smythe. There was a one-hundred-dollar reward for Cloud Walker's capture or for information leading to his arrest.

  Mary was in my thoughts constantly. Her baby would have been born by now and I often wondered if it was a boy or a girl, if mother and child were well.

  Shadow did not say much, but I knew his thoughts were much the same as mine. He always assured me that Cloud Walker could take care of Mary, that there was nothing to worry about, but I often caught him gazing into the distance, his eyes haunted and sad as he wondered where his daughter was.

  Once, I suggested he go out to find Mary and Cloud Walker, to see if they were well, but Shadow shook his head.

  "Cloud Walker is a warrior. How would it look if I went after him as though he were a child?"

  "I'm not worried about his pride," I had retorted. "I'm worried about my daughter." But I knew Shadow was right.

  Mattie Smythe wrote frequently, begging for news. Had I heard from Frank? Had Mary said anything about where Frank might be? As time went by, the Smythes hired a private detective to look for Frank. In addition, they offered a reward of one thousand dollars to anyone who had news of their son's whereabouts.

  I felt sorry for Mattie. I knew how awful it was, not knowing where your child was. I longed to write and tell her what had happened. It would be hard for her, knowing Frank was dead, but it would be better than not knowing anything at all.

  Several times I sat down to write her, to tell her what had happened between Frank and Mary and Cloud Walker, but I couldn't ease Mattie's mind without admitting that Cloud Walker had killed Frank, and I knew that Mattie and Leland would never believe that Frank had been capable of the treachery that had led to his death. They would believe that Cloud Walker had killed Frank in cold blood.

  I was glad when spring came. Our mares dropped their foals and soon our pastures were burgeoning with new life. Baby birds twittered in the treetops, one of Blackie's strays produced thirteen puppies, three of our cats had kittens. The deer, which were plentiful in the woods, could often be seen down by the river early in the morning, spotted fawns at their sides. Occasionally we saw a black bear looking for grubs and berries near the edge of the woods. Two fat cubs frolicked beside her.

  I warned Blackie not to try to steal one of those cubs from its mother, and when he seemed reluctant to obey, I told him of the time, long ago, when I had yearned to hold just such a cub, and how it had almost proved fatal to the boy who had blithely gone after the cub. Finally Blackie promised me he would leave the bears alone, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I did not like bears.

  It was the first of April, and Shadow was plagued with restlessness. I could see it in the depths of his eyes, hear it in his voice. I had rarely known him to be irritable, but he was downright cranky now, and nothing seemed to please him. I knew he needed to get away from our place, away from too many people and too much civilization. In addition, I knew he was worried about Mary, that he fretted over the fact that he could not help her, and so I suggested he take a few days off and go hunting. Some fresh venison would taste good, I said.

  And so it was that on a cool April morning Shadow threw some supplies in his war bag, kissed me good-bye, and rode off toward the distant mountains.

  The house felt different with Shadow gone, and though I had many chores to occupy my time, I still missed him. It gave me an odd sense of loneliness to know that he was gone, that he wasn't just out checking on the stock or working in the barn, but away from home.

  Hawk and Victoria came over later that day. Vickie and I made two apple pies and baked several loaves of bread while Amanda Marie slept peacefully before the hearth and the twins played outside with Hawk.

  The house seemed even emptier after Hawk and his family went home. I kept busy far into the night, cleaning and mending and ironing things that did not need ironing simply because I dreaded going to bed alone. I was sorry now that I had let Blackie spend the night away from home.

  Finally I ran out of things to do and went to bed, but I couldn't sleep. Instead I gazed out the window into the velvety darkness, wondering where Shadow was and what he was doing. Was he happy out there on the prairie all alone? Was he thinking of me as I was thinking of him? It pleased me to think so.

  Agitated because I couldn't sleep, I punched Shadow's pillow, angry with myself for suggesting that he go hunting, and more angry with him because he had gone.

  It was after midnight before I finally fell asleep.

  33

  They traveled as before, crossing the prairie by night and sleeping by day. Cloud Walker pushed the horses hard, for Mary's leg had become infected and nothing he did seemed to help. Mary did not complain, but he knew she was in pain. Her leg was red and swollen, and no matter how often he lanced the infection and drained the thick yellow pus from the wound, there was always more.

  He had nothing to give her to combat the fever that grew steadily worse, stea
ling her strength, until she was too weak to ride alone.

  He traveled now without resting at all, Mary held in one arm, his son cradled in the other. Now, when he would have welcomed help, there was none.

  He paused periodically and placed his son to Mary's breast, but the fever seemed to dry up her milk and the child fretted constantly. He gave Mary as much water as she could hold, sponging her fevered flesh as they rode across the plains.

  The last two days he rode without stopping. Mary was barely conscious when he reached Steel's Crossing, his son too weak to cry.

  Dismounting in front of the doctor's office, he pounded on the door with the toe of his boot until at last a gray-haired man clad in a long nightshirt opened the door.

  Dr. Marvin J. Harley did not waste time asking questions. It took but one look at Mary and the child to know there was little time to waste.

  "In here," the doctor said, and led the way through the house to his office in the back.

  Cloud Walker placed Mary on a long, sheet-covered table, stood grim-faced as the doctor examined her leg.

  "How bad is it?" Cloud Walker asked.

  "Very bad," Dr. Harley replied. He glanced up at the Indian holding the baby in his arms. "That child looks like it needs some nourishment. Two doors down there's a woman just gave birth to a baby. She's got more milk than she needs. Tell her I sent you."

  "My wife"

  "I'll look after her. There's nothing you can do here."

  Cloud Walker nodded. Tenderly he brushed a wisp of hair from Mary's cheek, his dark eyes haunted with the thought that she might die and it would be all his fault. Swallowing hard, he left the doctor's office.

  Melinda McBain felt a moment of panic when she opened her front door and saw a buckskin-clad Indian standing on the porch, a baby cradled in one arm.

  "Yes . . ." she said, taking a wary step backward. "Can I help you?"

  "The doctor down the street said you might be able to help me."

  "Help you?"